I Shall Not Be Thy Refuge Once More
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: Post Fall, return fic. Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to take down the rest of Moriarty's network with his blogger by his side. But when his planned reunion goes very, very wrong, Sherlock finds himself distrusting and fearful of the one person he thought he could always count on.
1. Once More, Thou Art Returning

_Notes: the characters aren't mine, and the story is! I've had this plot bunny for a while now, so I figured it was time to put it to use during the long wait for Series Three. I'm being deliberately vague on the amount of time passed since The Fall, since I don't know how long the actual hiatus will be_.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had waited long enough, as far as he was concerned. The time had come for his return to the world of the living and to round up what remained of Jim Moriarty's network. It was something that could've been easily done on his own; indeed, he knew that the wise thing to do would be to make sure that the ring was shattered before announcing to the world that he was alive. However, Sherlock wanted someone else to be with him as he—no, _they_—brought the ring down to its knees: Doctor John H. Watson. John had been with him since Moriarty first declared war on him at their confrontation by the pool (albeit not by choice, though Sherlock was certain that John would've been there by his side even if he had been given a choice); it was only fair that John be there to see the end… assuming that was what he wanted to do.

It wasn't just something that Sherlock wanted; it was something that John _needed_. And, perhaps… it was something that Sherlock himself needed, too. After being alone for so long and having finally met John on that cabbie case—"A Study in Pink," as John had called it—Sherlock had found that returning to his life of solitude after the fall was surprisingly unbearable. Sherlock, despite himself, had learned to care, against Mycroft's advice, and now he had to deal with its effects.

Among those effects was being able to feel empathy for the doctor, and that was why he was hoping that John would take the revelation of Sherlock's death being faked as well as could be expected. And that was a long shot; Sherlock knew he had put John through a lot—forcing him to watch him die, then not telling him that he really wasn't dead, and allowing him to agonize over the loss for as long as he had. But, perhaps, a case… and another adventure, just like the good old days… that would be the perfect offering in the hopes of making amends for all that Sherlock had done. And as far as Sherlock was concerned, the time to make amends to his long-suffering friend had come.

Unfortunately, there was another person who seemed to think otherwise. Sherlock didn't know or care as to how his brother had found out that he was alive and planning to return, but the closer he approached London, the more texts he received, all saying something to the same effect:

"_Most unwise at this time. Advise you to stay away_."

"_This whole affair of hiding has been an utterly dull bore_," Sherlock had texted back after ignoring the majority of them. "_I have had enough_."

That was only the partial truth; yes, Sherlock was bored. The main reason for wanting to return was, of course, to see John once again, but Sherlock saw no reason to let Mycroft know about that.

The detective was soon jolted from his thoughts as his phone signaled another incoming text.

"_Too premature_," came his brother's reply.

Sherlock quietly scoffed at the screen and didn't even dignify it with a reply. When had he ever listened to Mycroft, anyway?

"_Will state this plainly—once and only once_," Mycroft messaged. "_Return now, and you will regret it_."

"_Really, such melodrama is beneath you. You disappoint me_."

Mycroft didn't send another reply, and Sherlock assumed that he had just given up on the conversation. Pleased with himself, Sherlock put his phone away and continued towards the address that Molly Hooper had given him; Molly had informed him of John's activities, including the address of his new flat upon leaving Baker Street. Even if he had trouble voicing it, he was genuinely grateful to Molly for everything she had done—helping him fake his death and keeping a watch over John. It was through her vigils and subsequent relays to Sherlock that provided him with some amount of sanity during his time away.

But the only true return to sanity would arrive when Sherlock had his blogger by his side once again. If Sherlock was fortunate enough, hopefully, he could convince John to return to Baker Street. If he wasn't that fortunate, well… He couldn't blame John if he didn't forgive him, but after all the time he had spent at the graveside, talking to him, pleading for him not to be dead, Sherlock was hoping that whatever anger John righteously harbored would only be temporary.

The anticipation of their reunion increased with every step Sherlock took—first down the street, then into the building, up the staircase, and down the corridor. A quart of milk was in his hand—the first of many peace offerings and a tie to their friendship from the days before the fall from St. Bart's.

He stood for a moment outside the door of the flat, steeling himself. There would be many different possible reactions he could get from John upon the revelation that Sherlock wasn't dead, and he had to be ready for all of them.

The detective raised his fist and knocked on the door, but as he did so, the door creaked open slightly; it had been left both unlocked and opened. Slowly, he pushed the door fully open, revealing the darkened rooms within.

Sherlock checked his watch, frowning. It was two in the morning; why on earth would John have left his door _open_? He was never that careless!

Sherlock stepped inside now, his heart in his throat for the fear of what he was about to find. Had Mycroft been right? Had Moriarty's network realized that he was alive and had gone after John in retaliation?

As Sherlock took a look around, he saw that his fears were unfounded; he could see John's sleeping form on the sofa, illuminated by the flickering light from the TV set. As Sherlock walked over, he could see that there were two sets of dinner plates on the coffee table, some uneaten food on both of them. The TV screen was showing the DVD menu for _Casablanca_, and between that and the two sets of dinnerware, Sherlock quickly deduced what had happened; John had been entertaining a date, more than likely after a long day of work, and had fallen asleep before the movie had been completed. John's date must have left to let him sleep, either out of politeness or annoyance—perhaps even a bit of both, though judging from the smear of red on John's cheek, she had, at least, kissed him before taking her leave of him, signifying a bit more of politeness.

The detective wasn't at all surprised to see that John's date had left the TV on—perhaps with the movie playing all the way through; John had a death grip on the remote control, and Sherlock knew from experience that there was no feasible way to get John to relinquish the remote once that happened.

Sherlock regarded the scene with a wan smile as he placed the quart of milk on the coffee table beside the plates. He had been so concerned for him after the fall—first for the fact that there could've been every chance that Moriarty's network would have eliminated John just for kicks, and then for the fact that John might have been too badly broken by Sherlock's fall to continue on with a normal life.

But Sherlock's fears had been unfounded; John was safe, and he had been able to continue with life, despite the pain, despite the non-updated blog, and despite the regular visits to the cemetery. The detective had never stopped being a part of the doctor's life, but he had not consumed the doctor's life, either. If he had truly been dead, this is what Sherlock would've wanted to have seen—a John Watson who was staying strong despite his mourning and was making a good life for himself, and even managing to find the time to try to charm the ladies of London.

But the time for John's mourning was over at last! It was time for John to return to what he loved, and what they both loved: reentering the battlefield—_their_ battlefield! It was time for them to share it all again—the clue searches, the putting together the puzzle pieces, the deductions, the midnight chases, and the shameless flirting with Lady Danger as they danced circles around her!

These thoughts brought an almost-boyish smile to Sherlock's face as he leaned over his slumbering friend and shook his shoulder to awaken him—first gently, and then with a bit more force.

"John?" he asked, softly. When he received no reply, he repeated the name, a bit louder. "John!"

It was as John's eyes flew open and as he launched himself at Sherlock, dropping the remote control and grabbing one of the knives from the dinner plates, that the detective realized that using _that_ particular method of awakening an ex-solider probably fell into the realm of Not Good.

He really had been quite out of touch on the whole empathy thing since the fall, but, hopefully, John would be able to serve as his moral compass once again—though, of course, he had to get John to recognize him first.

"John! John, it's me!"

Sherlock scrambled backwards towards the window, allowing the moonlight to fall on his face.

"John!"

He gave an apologetic grin at his best friend, certain that the light would be enough for the doctor to recognize him, but the smile quickly faded from Sherlock's face as the moonlight illuminated John's expression. John was glaring right at Sherlock, a murderous expression blazing in his eyes.

"…John…?"

The glint of the moonlight through the window reflected off of the knife as John swung it towards Sherlock's torso.

The detective moved out of the way only at the last moment. John's knife missed him by an inch, and the doctor was already turning back towards him, his arm poised to swing the knife again.

"John, stop this!" Sherlock ordered. "_Stop_!"

But John swung the knife again; this time, he sliced a hole in the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, just missing his skin.

Sherlock now retreated again, trying to back out the front door of the flat, but John lunged with the knife a third time. Sherlock collided with the door instead, falling over. He then had to scramble away from John in an ungainly crabwalk as the knife came down for the fourth time.

Sherlock got to his feet again, now running for his life. Unfortunately, he ran right into the kitchen—a dead end.

"John, don't do this!" he pleaded, but his voice fell upon seemingly deaf ears as John approached him, knife still in his right hand. "_Please_!"

He could've counted the number of times he had said "please" and meant it on one hand—and oh, did he ever mean it now.

And despite its significance, the "please" apparently meant nothing to John, who now seized Sherlock by the shirt front with his left hand, as though ensuring that he would not escape this time.

Sherlock grabbed John's right wrist as he swung down with the knife again; John just gritted his teeth in frustration and tried to bring the blade down as Sherlock struggled desperately to keep the blade away from him. The two of them struggled across the kitchen in some sort of macabre dance.

"John…!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to grab onto the counter with his free hand in order to gain some leverage.

But his hand, drenched in sweat, slipped, instead landing on the handle of the silverware drawer; as Sherlock put his weight on it, the drawer pulled open, and the sudden shift in his center of gravity sent Sherlock tumbling towards the ground, a rain of forks and spoons landing with him. His grip on John's wrist was released as he fell; Sherlock was certain that John would use this moment to attack again, but between the counter and the fridge, there was no easy way to dive aside.

But the knife in John's hand now clattered to the floor in front of Sherlock, as well. The detective looked up; his eyes had adjusted to the dim light enough for him to see John's expression. A dawning comprehension was now filling the doctor's eyes, as though he was only now just realizing who was in his flat.

"…Sherlock…?" he whispered. "_Sherlock_…!?"

The detective didn't move, still staring up at John with a horrified, frightened expression on his face.

For a split second, it was as though everything was as it should've been. John was staring at Sherlock in wide-eyed wonder, a mixture of emotions on his face as the doctor was sent emotionally reeling before the detective's eyes. This was the reaction that the detective had been expecting.

But as Sherlock looked on, John dropped to the floor in a dead faint, thankfully missing the knife and fork prongs.

The detective was inhaling and exhaling rapidly, trying to recover from what happened while being simultaneously concerned for John. Slowly, so as to make sure that John really was unconscious and not faking it in order to get in a sneak attack, he made his way to the doctor's side.

He spent a moment checking John's breathing and his pulse to confirm that, yes, John had just fainted. Instinct took over; even after what John had just tried to do to him, Sherlock knew he couldn't just leave him lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. Gently, he picked him up, heading across the flat; he was halfway to the sofa before he gave his head a shake and, instead, put John to bed.

Sherlock left immediately after that—left the room, and headed straight out the front door of the flat, closing it behind him.

And it was there, in the corridor, that the full weight of what had just happened came crashing down upon him.

Doctor John H. Watson, the man who had been Sherlock's faithful blogger and best friend for eighteen months—and had mourned him for countless more months—had just tried to kill him.


	2. Has Thou Lost Thy Way as Once Before?

Aimless wandering around town had never been something that Sherlock had done prior to tonight; usually, if he was wandering, his mind would be focused on the details of a case, but now, his head was empty.

And his heart was aching.

His mind—foremost in the powers of rationalizing, could not come up with a reason to explain John's violent attack on him. Sherlock had been desperate to believe that John simply had not recognized him—after all, why else did he exclaim his name in disbelief before he had fainted?

But that look in John's eyes when they had been standing in the moonlight suggested otherwise. They had both been illuminated in the moonlight, able to see each other—and John's murderous expression had not wavered. That could only mean, then, for that moment, however temporary that moment had been, John had wanted Sherlock dead.

And that was what hurt the most.

It made no sense, either. Oh, Sherlock knew he should've expected John to be angry at the deception, but he had expected a punch to the face, not a knife to the chest. After everything they had been through… after the long hours John had spent defending Sherlock's honor and mourning him—the tributes and unwavering declarations that he believed in him, and nothing could get him to stop…

…How, then, had it come to this…?

His mind raced, repeatedly, trying to find some sort of answer; finding none, he took out his phone and contemplated texting Mycroft. His elder brother had seemed to know something that Sherlock hadn't, but to text him would be the equivalent of crawling to him on his hands and knees.

Sherlock cringed, but swallowed his pride. This was John they were dealing with, and he was more than willing to technologically crawl back to his elder brother.

"_What's wrong with John?_"

He waited for a reply, but received none; despite the fact that it was so early in the morning, he would've expected a reply from Mycroft, knowing that his brother frequently pulled all-nighters in his line of work.

"_TELL ME!_"

He still received no reply, and now Sherlock was resigned to believing that Mycroft either was asleep or was ignoring him on purpose—and judging by how irked he had seemed before, it was most likely the latter.

And it was after that realization that Sherlock resumed wandering aimlessly across town. The unfairness of it all was too much; he had faked his death to save John—and would've been willing to give his life to save him—and this was the thanks he received?

If anyone had told him that John would've ever considered trying to harm him, he would've dismissed them as insane. And yet, here he was, reeling and aching from having experienced the one thing he never thought possible—betrayal. John's betrayal. Betrayal by the one person in the world he had opened his cold heart to… John betraying him now hurt a hundredfold more than when the rest of the world had turned against him due to Moriarty's scheme…

His mind suddenly screamed for him to stop. There had to be a reason for this—there _had_ to be! John—his John, his blogger—could not and would not turn against him so easily, not after everything they had been through together… not after John's firm declarations that he would always believe in him, no matter what.

But was that truly what his logical mind believed? Or was that mere sentiment—a desperate attempt to not have to grasp the all-to-possible reality that John had turned on him out of the pent-up hurt?

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him, not at all sure where to go from here. Sherlock had been banking on John giving him a place to stay, but that was obviously not happening. Getting a hotel was out of the question; he didn't have easy access to cash reserves, having to depend on Mycroft and Molly. He certainly wasn't about to ask Mycroft for help, so that left… only one option.

And that was why Molly Hooper found Sherlock Holmes at her door at the crack of dawn.

"Sherlock!?" she quietly gasped, as she let him in. "What are you doing here?! I thought you were going to stay with John…!" She trailed off at the look on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock sat down on the couch, staring at the opposite wall.

"John tried to kill me."

"Well, you should've expected him to hit you after all that he's been through," Molly said. "But…"

"No, I mean it; John tried to _kill_ me—stab me with a knife."

"…_What_!? There has to be some mistake! John would never—"

"He did!" Sherlock bellowed, trying to mask the emotions he was feeling. "He saw my face clearly in the moonlight, and then proceeded to attempt to stab me—_repeatedly_! And the look in his eyes…" Despite himself, Sherlock couldn't suppress a shudder as he recalled it. "It was the same murderous look that Moriarty's had when we were up on the roof. John wanted me dead."

"That just isn't possible," Molly said, firmly. "And you know it. There has to be an explanation—"

"Of course there's an explanation!" Sherlock retorted. "All the time he's spent mourning me has undoubted giving him an immeasurable amount of pain, and, therefore, feelings of hostility towards me. These feelings of hostility go against his feelings of mourning his best friend, so he banished them all to a corner of his mind—a corner of his mind that was, undoubtedly, shocked into consciousness upon my surprise return! He's a Jekyll and Hyde now, and—!"

"Sherlock!" Molly said, horrified. "You know that's not true! I know you're always saying terrible things about everyone, even me, but you can't give John so little credit! John is a soldier. He's a strong man, and you know it. And from what I've seen, he's been doing great. He's got an American businesswoman as his latest girlfriend, he's got great job as a GP in the East End, and he even sometimes helps out Lestrade on cases! There is nothing wrong with him!"

"Then how do you explain the attempted murder I just escaped?!" Sherlock demanded. "He is most certainly _not_ okay!"

Molly bit her lip at first to silence herself, but then decided that, for John's sake, she couldn't remain silent.

"I don't have an explanation or an answer," she admitted, shrugging her shoulders. "But I'm sure you'll find one, Sherlock—I know you will, just like you always do. And then you're going to realize that you were being very unfair towards John for making such a horrible assumption."

Sherlock let out a quiet scoff.

"My assumptions are _deductions_."

"Yes, just like your _deductions_ about Jim."

Sherlock turned his head sharply to glare at her, and Molly realized she had gone too far with that one.

"Sorry," she said, hastily. "He fooled me, too; I know that—"

"Yes, well, fooling you wouldn't have been difficult!" Sherlock snapped, not caring that he was going out of line; he could almost picture John's disapproving look, but he still did not apologize.

He wanted to be wrong about John. He wanted nothing more than to be wrong. But what other answer could possibly remain?

Molly had been staring at Sherlock since his last quip, tight-lipped. Without another word, she left him to get ready for work, hoping that John would be able to prove her right and prove Sherlock wrong.

Because if Sherlock was right, it had meant that everything he and Molly had done to allow him to escape Moriarty's sinister plan had been all for naught.

* * *

John winced as he awoke with a dull pain throughout his right side, as though he had fallen on it. He groaned, sitting up as he tried to recall how on earth he had fallen; there were large gaps in his memory last night, and it was absolutely annoying him that he couldn't get all the pieces of his memory in place.

_All I had was one glass of wine_… he thought. _Nowhere near enough to have a blackout_. _Right—focus, just like Sherlock would've done_….

The thought brought both a twinge of his heart in addition to a wistful smile. If only Sherlock was here, he could've probably told him _exactly_ what he had done last night. Of course, if Sherlock was here, so many things would be different—the main thing, of course, is that John would've had his best friend.

John pushed this thought aside. He always made time to spare some thoughts for his lost friend, but there was a time and place for everything, and, right now, he had to find what had happened.

_Let's see… Aranea and I were watching_ Casablanca _while we had dinner, and_… His thoughts trailed off. …_I fell asleep during the film, didn't I?_

He rolled his eyes in exasperation at himself as he crossed to the living room, massaging his arm as he looked around the room. There were the plates. There was the DVD case. There was the quart of milk…

John froze in his tracks.

_That… wasn't there last night_.

His current flame, Aranea, wouldn't have bought that for him. Actually, there would be only one person in the world who would've bought a quart of milk for John. But that person was dead…

John picked up the milk, his mind reeling as he stared at it.

_Could it be possible…? Could he be…? No, he can't be! But… If there was one person who could've pulled it off_…

John's gaze now found its way to the kitchen, where he saw the spilled silverware.

_What happened here?_ he mentally asked. _Sherlock…? Were you really here? Why did you leave? Where are you now?_

He shut his eyes for a moment, desperately trying to recall what had happened. Something had happened, but his mind just would not give him any more answers.

_Right. Back to deducing, like he would've done. We have a quart of milk, spilled silverware, and my side hurts as though I fell on it. And I can't remember a single thing. Why can't I remember what happened? Is it because of shock? …Shock because I saw someone I knew was dead?_

He now called up Aranea, who sounded pleased to hear from him.

"Morning, John," she said, her American accent ringing clear.

Morning," he returned. "Hey, ah… Sorry for nodding off during the film."

"Oh, it's fine," she said. "Are we still on for tonight?"

"Yes… Yes, we are," he said. "Listen, you didn't see anyone around the building when you left last night, did you?"

"No, but I left around eleven," she said. "Why, was there a break-in?"

John looked from the milk to the silverware.

"No, there wasn't; I was just… curious, that's all. Never mind me; I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"Sounds good; I've got a meeting I need to run to, so forgive me for hanging up."

John just smiled and said goodbye, now turning back to the mystery at hand. He headed out the door now, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

If Sherlock was alive… there had to be someone else who would have known about it—to help him hide. Mycroft would be the most logical choice, but seeing as though Mycroft had been the reason why Moriarty had received the ammunition he required to put his plan into action, John hadn't spoken to the older Holmes since the revelation that it was all his fault. And he had no desire to start now, whether or not he did know.

But there had to be someone else who did know—the one person who had the means to fake a death, utilizing a morgue to its fullest extent to do so.

And it was due to that knowledge that, a half hour later, John Watson found himself knocking on the door of Molly Hooper's flat. She opened the door now, going pale at the sight of him.

"John…!" she said, with a nervous smile. "I didn't expect to see you here! You… you just caught me on my way out, actually. But, tell me, how're things going for you; I've barely seen you since you got that new job—"

"Molly, I think he's alive," the doctor said, cutting her off. "Please tell me what you know, Molly. Is he really alive, or am I just crazy?!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied.

"_Please_!" John exclaimed. "Don't do this to me, Molly; he was my best friend, and if it's true that he's…"

Molly cringed as she saw John's eyes widen immediately upon looking past her shoulder, and it was then that she realized that the full-length mirror on the wall behind her was reflecting Sherlock's hiding place behind the furniture where he had attempted to conceal himself. Sherlock realized it a second too late, cursing himself as John now pushed past Molly to face him.

Here they were, face to face again. And heaven only knew what would happen now that they were.


	3. But I Shan't Heed Thee as Before

John wasn't sure how to classify the mix of emotions he was feeling. This was the moment he had been hoping—_praying_—for, but the joy that was trying to swell in his heart was being suppressed by an equally fierce sensation of hurt and anger. All this time… all this time, Sherlock had been alive, letting John think that he was dead… It was clear now that John's life since Sherlock's fall had been lies upon lies—the lies starting when Sherlock had pleaded him to believe he was a fake, and escalating into this—countless months of mourning a man who wasn't even dead.

So upset was John that he didn't even read the frightened look in Sherlock's eyes as the detective stared back at him. The ex-solider opened his mouth, but no words could escape his tightened throat.

It was only when he took a step towards Sherlock that the silence broke. The detective recoiled as the doctor approached.

"Stay back!" he ordered.

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed.

John blinked, stunned by the rebuff, but then scowled, the anger and hurt in his heart now eclipsing the relief.

"No. No, no, _no_. You have no right—absolutely _no right_ to tell me to do a single thing!" he retorted. "After everything you put me through—after seeing you…" He trailed off, sputtering for words and silently gestured upwards to an invisible St. Bart's roof. "Can you even _begin_ to comprehend what I've been through?!" He clenched a fist. "You owe me an explanation, Sherlock, and it had better be good!"

"I'll give you your precious explanation if you can give me an explanation as to why you tried to kill me last night!" Sherlock roared.

"_What_?!" John exclaimed, disbelief causing his voice to nearly crack. "Is this a joke?! Are you seriously trying to stand there and make some sort of sick joke about this!? This is not funny, Sherlock!"

"Neither is narrowly surviving repeated murder attempts by your former flatmate!" the detective retorted.

"_Are you mad_!?"

"I should ask you that same question, Doctor!"

"I wasn't even sure that you were alive until sixty seconds ago!" John exclaimed, unable to grasp the fact that they were even having this conversation.

He took another step towards him, and stopped as Sherlock raised his fists to defend himself.

"I said for you to _stay back_!"

It was then that John realized that this was no joke—the fear in the detective's eyes was raw and very, very real.

"…You're serious…" the army doctor said, in disbelief. "You really believe that I tried to—"

"I don't _believe_. You know I never believe—I _know_!" Sherlock snapped back. "And before I give you any explanations about anything, I demand an explanation from you regarding your actions, Doctor!"

"Explanation!?" John exclaimed. "I never laid a hand on you—you know I'd never lay a hand on you!"

"No, not a hand—just a knife!"

"Sherlock, I _didn't_! You have to be mistaken!"

"Denying it is futile; I will not fall prey to mind games—not even from you! I demand the truth!"

"_Mind games_?!" John repeated. The conversation they were having was more unbelievable than the fact that Sherlock was alive have a conversation at all. "You were the one to fake your death and make me watch it, and now you're saying that _I'm_ the one playing mind games!?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort again, but Molly's shrill voice cut him off before he could say another word.

"Stop it—both of you!" she ordered, looking from the detective to the doctor. "You're both making these horrible assumptions about each other without even knowing if they're true—yes, you, too, Sherlock! You should've kept in mind that you were the last person on earth that John would've expected to sneak into his flat in the middle of the night; you could've easily been mistaken for an intruder!"

"I told you, I identified myself!" Sherlock snapped back, and he glared at John. "I identified myself—both by voice and by standing in the light so that you could see me. It was only after you saw me that you attempted to stab me—with an expression that I'd seen on the faces of murderers and assassins."

"And I'm telling you, I didn't—and would never—even think of doing such a thing to you!" John retorted.

"John!" Molly said, with the same amount of sternness that she had just addressed Sherlock with. "John, don't you think it's slightly possible that you weren't fully awake—that you may have been having a waking dream, or something like that? You might've attacked Sherlock without realizing it because you were trying to protect yourself from something in your dream."

Both Sherlock and John blinked as they glanced at Molly, and then at each other once again.

"I, for one, can't believe that John would intentionally hurt you in any way," she went on. "Surely the great Sherlock Holmes can deduce that?"

Any replies that either of the two men had were interrupted by Molly's landline ringing. She cringed.

"That'll be the landlord," she groaned. "No doubt responding to the complaints of the neighbors after hearing you two and your row…"

"Sorry…" John offered. "If there's anything I can—"

"I can handle it," Molly promised. "If there's anything you can do, it's to resolve this like the friends that you are."

She crossed to the next room to answer the phone, casting one last look at the both of them.

Sherlock and John continued to glance at each other, their anger ebbing, though not absent.

"Perhaps it wasn't the most prudent statement for me to make," Sherlock said, after a moment.

"No… really?" the doctor asked, sardonically. The accusations had hurt, and he wasn't quite sure what was hurting more—the deception of being forced to believe that Sherlock had been dead all this time when he head really been alive, or being accused by him of trying to harm him. Even if Sherlock hadn't voice the accusation, John had to admit that it hurt that Sherlock even considered it.

Sherlock bit his lip.

"You might even call it more than a bit Not Good," he added, trying to make amends, it seemed, by bring back some of the old words of their shared vocabulary.

"More than a bit, yes," John said. For a moment, he looked the detective in the eyes and shook his head. This… this was more than he could take right now, and he needed to get away from it. "Well, goodbye."

He headed for the door.

"John!"

"Ah, so it's finally 'John' again, instead of 'Doctor.' Yeah, I guess that's an improvement."

"John, don't…"

"I'm only doing what you told me to do," the doctor said. "You want me to stay away in case I try to stab you again. And the fact that it's even an issue makes me wonder if we have anything to discuss…"

He trailed off as Sherlock crossed the room and placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder to stop him from walking further away. John shut his eyes, willing himself to contain his emotions.

How long had he begged and pleaded for a chance to feel that hand upon his shoulder? Forget that—how long had he begged and pleaded just to hear his friend's voice again? Time had progressed with the healing processes, but it hadn't stopped John from wishing that his friend wasn't dead. And now, here he was, able to see that face, feel that hand upon his shoulder, and hear that voice again, just as he had wanted…

…But it was all wrong. Everything about it was just all wrong. The voice he had wished to hear again had accused John of terrible things, and there wasn't even the solace that Sherlock might've spoken words he hadn't meant due to his emotions—because the Sherlock Holmes he remembered _never_ said anything that was emotionally charged, especially during his deductions, where he mercilessly said exactly what he was thinking. And that meant that he truly did believe that John might have intentionally wished to bring him to harm.

He removed Sherlock's hand from his shoulder, and Sherlock, clearly, realized how badly he had messed up

"John… I'm sorry."

John now turned to face him.

"Sorry for what?" he asked, incredulously. Sherlock Holmes didn't apologize freely; with all the deception that seemed to have defined their friendship—assuming one could even call it that anymore—since the days surrounding the fall.

"For this," Sherlock said, awkwardly. "For… everything that I've put you though all this time."

"See, it's interesting that you're saying that," John said, sardonically. "Because I really don't think you quite understand exactly 'everything that you've put me through all this time.' I really don't."

"I can imagine—"

"_No_," John said, sternly. "No, you can't! You cannot _possibly_ understand what it's like—watching your best friend try to make you believe that everything you ever thought about him was a lie! Watching your best friend ignore your pleas like they mean nothing! Watching your best friend die_ right in front your eyes_ while you're absolutely powerless to do a thing about it! Seeing his blood everywhere without being able to stop it from flowing! Searching for his pulse and feeling absolutely _nothing_! Looking into his eyes and seeing only emptiness staring back at you!"

Sherlock stared back at John, tight-lipped, but he didn't say a word, instead allowing John to continue.

"Standing by a gravestone and pleading for him to come back! Accepting that he won't come back and attempting to move on! And finally having moved on, only to have him come back and accuse you of _wanting_ him dead!"

Sherlock looked away, unable to continue meeting John's gaze.

"Why did you come back, Sherlock?" the doctor asked. "Why now? Was this just a convenient moment for you? Or was this all some sort of game for you—fooling the entire world—and you just got bored of it?" He clenched a fist again. "Why did you do this!? Why all of this deception!?"

Sherlock frowned, but he knew he deserved that.

"Trust me when I say, John, that I had a very good reason for doing what I did," he said, his voice a calm contrast to John's furious quips.

"Well, you'll have to excuse me for not believing you right away," John said. "With all the lies you've been feeding me, I'm not so sure I can trust you to speak the truth after all this time."

Sherlock flinched ever so slightly, and this didn't escape John.

"Alright, alright," the doctor said. "I'll hear you out. But your explanation had better be good. And I'm giving you five minutes; I have places I need to be, so that's all the time I can afford right now."

"I only need five seconds."

"Fine. Enlighten me."

"I did it to save your life."

Whatever reply John had been preparing for what he had assumed was going to be a lame excuse died in his throat.

"…What…?" he asked, just shaking his head.

"That was the five-second version," Sherlock said, unable to figure out how he had managed to keep his expression neutral this entire time. "If you can spare me more than five minutes, I could give you the full version."

Molly, who had since gotten off of the phone with her landlord and made some toast for the two, now stood just outside the room, waiting and watching for a sign that things would be on the road to being repaired.

"Can you spare me the time to explain?" Sherlock asked.

John looked to the floor, the mixture of emotions within him growing more and more muddled, but soon giving him the answer.

This was his best friend—the best friend he had thought he had lost. And even though he was righteously angry at having been deceived for so long and accused, he knew that he should, at least, give his friend a chance.

He sighed and nodded, sitting down on Molly's sofa, prompting her to give a slight sigh of relief.

A flicker of a smile now crossed Sherlock's face; if John had refused to hear him out, he wouldn't have blamed him.

But he had stayed. And no matter what doubts remained in the detective's mind due to the attack last night, he would, at least, give him the explanation he deserved.


	4. Thou Makest Demands on Me

Blocks away from Molly's flat, while the second attempt at the reunion was taking place, a red-nailed hand absently flipped her phone around and around as a blond woman sat at the desk in her hotel room.

It seemed to be completely random that John Watson would've called to ask if she had seen an intruder on her way out last night. And yet, was it really nothing?

She absently gazed at the phone in her hand. Her instructions had been clear—to report if something out of the ordinary occurred during her time with the doctor—for anything out of the ordinary could mean that Sherlock Holmes was alive.

She had to admit that she found it farfetched, but Sebastian had told her otherwise. Jim had apparently confided in Sebastian that he had suspected Sherlock might have pulled off something so impossible.

It was then that Sebastian asked her, on the late Jim's behalf, to get close to John Watson, for if Sherlock Holmes was alive, he would, eventually contact him. And it was then that they could put their plan into action.

For the last few three months since dating the doctor, however, nothing seemed to have happened. She had been seeing the doctor regularly, following all of Sebastian's instructions to the letter, but there had been nothing to suggest that Sherlock Holmes had ever tried to contact him. On the infrequent occasions that Sherlock was brought into the conversation, John always referred to him in the past tense, the sorrow in his eyes genuine. More than once, she had found the charade useless.

But here was this development from this morning. Perhaps it was nothing… but, perhaps, it was her chance to finally pay back an IOU to the late Jim Moriarty.

With a determined look, she went through her phone's list of contacts and placed a call to Sebastian Moran.

* * *

Molly had long since taken her leave to go to St. Bart's, but she left Sherlock and John a tray full of breakfast as Sherlock calmly explained everything that had happened. John still looked hurt and upset, but he did seem willing to sit through the explanation, and as Molly left, she found herself hoping that their friendship was on the road to recovery.

"…And that's the whole truth," Sherlock explained. "I came back because I knew there was one person who would love to take down the rest of Moriarty's ring along with me—one person I wanted there with me."

"You… couldn't have come back sooner?" John asked, softly. "Let Molly tell me, or let _anyone_ tell me?"

"I told you, John; I thought they would be watching you," Sherlock said. "I didn't… I couldn't let them kill you!"

He had voiced only that much of his concerns, but being who he was—famous for being emotionless—he had not revealed the true horror he had felt at the prospect of being responsible for the death of his best friend.

"You are upset, and rightly so. I understand that. But at least you're alive to be upset," he finished.

John just shook his head, cursing softly; Sherlock wasn't sure whether it was Moriarty's network or Sherlock himself the doctor was cursing, and the detective decided he didn't want to know.

There was an awkward pause after that, which Sherlock tried to break in an even more awkward manner.

"I take it you missed me."

"If I punch you in the face right now, no one would blame me."

"I'll take that as a yes if you avoid my nose and teeth."

John turned sharply towards him with an unreadable expression, prompting Sherlock to look back at him with a similar one. Slowly, the doctor's mouth cracked into a smile, and then, suddenly, he burst out laughing.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before starting to laugh himself—whether out of relief or because of John's infectious laughter, he wasn't sure. And he didn't care; for that one, wonderful moment, it was as though the painful span of time apart had never happened, and they were both laughing like schoolboys just as they had been during their visit to Buckingham Palace.

John was laughing and crying at the same time after a moment, his emotions still in a jumbled mess. He caught his breath and dried his eyes, still in disbelief. This had to be a dream, and yet, he knew he was wide awake.

"I really don't know what I'm going to do with you, Sherlock," he said.

"Well, I think I can answer that for you," the detective said, with a smirk. "Come with me and help me round up the rest of Moriarty's web—the detective and his blogger, just like the old days."

The smile faded from John's face now, and so did Sherlock's smirk upon seeing that.

"John?"

"It's not that simple, Sherlock," he said, softly. "I, um… I need to go to work. I actually should've left half an hour ago."

"Work? _Work_?!" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, work. You know, that thing you do for a living? I have a job at—"

"I know; you're working in the East End. Molly told me. But what we did—that was our work, wasn't it?"

"Well, it was, but you were supposed to be dead, remember? I couldn't have exactly carried on alone—not only were you still being considered a fraud by everyone and their dog, I don't exactly possess the same gift that you do."

"You shouldn't have had to work at all," Sherlock said, frowning. "I told Mycroft to give you—"

"Mycroft and I are not on speaking terms," John said, his fist clenching again. "He sent me several text messages and emails after your funeral, which I deleted without reading. And I refused to answer his calls. I even refused to go along with Anthea when she turned up outside my flat with one of Mycroft's cars."

Sherlock felt his heart twist in his chest; he had planned everything such that John would've been well off during his absence, and just now he had found out that John had been working hard during the time he should've been recovering from this… the time when he should've been grieving in peace.

"He was going to give you money, John—money that I had set aside for you… Money from our clients that was just as much yours as it was mine."

"I suspected that, actually, but I wasn't going to take any help from Mycroft. It was his fault, you know. He was the one who—"

"I know, John. I know. I'm just sorry you had to suffer so long in my absence."

"Suffer? Sherlock, I went to school for this; I probably would've still searched for a job anyway, even if I had accepted the money."

"So I'm really not the only one who gets bored…" Sherlock said, with a wan smile. "Well, I guess burying yourself in work is one way of dealing with grief. It's the best antidote to sorrow, after all."

"That's what you've been doing, then?" John asked.

"Been keeping tabs on one Sebastian Moran," Sherlock agreed. "You remember our meeting with Moriarty at the pool? Of course you remember; it was one of the best nights of your life. Moran was the one holding the first rifle that night."

"Ah."

"I'm almost certain he was there the day I fell, too. Waiting in case I didn't…"

"Let's not go there, shall we?" John said.

"Sorry. Anyway, Moran's been all over Europe, trying to get into contact with some of Moriarty's old confederates. They've been making plans to come here—in London. I've seen a couple in town; I half expect that Moran will be in London soon, assuming he isn't here already."

"And so you came to London, too."

"It was the most logical decision, wasn't it? I also thought it was a logical decision to ask you to come along. I didn't exactly expect a refusal—not from you. And I certainly didn't expect an atta—"

He stopped himself, but he was too late; John gave him a most disapproving look, his mouth going thin again.

"Well, now that we've gotten that out of the way, I need to go to work," the doctor said, getting to his feet.

"John, no; I said the wrong thing—"

"You know, you're good at that. You really are…"

"John, for the love of…" It was Sherlock's turn to clench a fist, this time in frustration. "How do I make this up to you? Tell me!"

John now cast a sideways glance at his friend—his socially awkward friend who, clearly, wanted nothing more than to make amends, but just didn't _understand_ that things didn't work like this.

"You need to learn, Sherlock," he said, softly. "It just isn't something so simple as to do one or two things."

"I will do whatever I have to," Sherlock vowed.

"Well, for starters, you could stop bringing up that I intentionally attacked you!"

Sherlock looked down, averting John's gaze. He wanted to believe John; he wanted to believe that it had been some sort of dream he had been in the middle of or some huge mistake. But the murderous look in John's eyes would not leave Sherlock's consciousness. Sherlock knew that the look in John's eyes had only turned up after he had recognized him. But he didn't dare to say anything—not when John had seemed honestly shocked and upset by Sherlock's accusation of the attack.

Something was wrong, but, whatever it was, it had hopefully passed. It certainly seemed to be now.

"I am sorry, John. Truly, I am… very sorry. What else can I do?"

"Sherlock, I told you, it's not that simple. It's not just about making amends—though you have put me through a lot and amends would be nice, but… I do forgive you, Sherlock. Don't think that I'm going to hold a grudge over this, because I wouldn't do that. But you have to understand that this is… more than unexpected. I'm not used to death being something other than permanent. I'd finally adjusted my life, and then, all of a sudden, you walk back in and expect me to pick up right where we left off. Sherlock, please understand. I have a job. I have a girlfriend. I have commitments to the both of them. … I can't just drop everything and chase after Moriarty's lot now!"

"But you want to," Sherlock said. "I can see it in your eyes, John. You want things to go back to the way they were before, don't you? The clues, the chase, the adrenaline coursing through you… you've missed it as much as you've missed me."

"I won't deny it," John said, after a moment. "But the point is—"

"There is no point," Sherlock challenged, deducing John's thought process just like he always used to do. "You're standing on some sort of principle. Your job and your girlfriend were here for you when I was not, so you feel obligated to them. There's also a part of you that wants to teach me a lesson in spite of your having forgiven me, so you've got yourself another reason. Thirdly, there's a part of you that is convinced that this is a dream or a hallucination, and I'm not really here. Well, let me assure you, John, that I am here. I am real. And I am giving you that chance to go back to the life we both miss."

John forced his expression to remain neutral.

"Things have changed in your absence, Sherlock," he said calmly.

"But not this," the detective smirked. "Never this—especially not something so personal as this. Because these people are the reason why we… why you had to go through this. Don't tell me that you're willing to let them go about their business, because I know that John Watson wouldn't even consider it."

"You can stop twisting my arm," John said, retrieving his phone from his pocket to text the clinic that something unexpected had come up. "But let's make one thing perfectly clear, Sherlock. I'm not doing this for the adrenaline rush or the nostalgia. I'm doing this to show you that I appreciate that you are willing to trust me again after you seemed so convinced that I was trying to kill you. Tell the truth, Sherlock; you would much rather go on your own so you wouldn't have to watch your back if I'm around. You're the one acting on principle now; but you seem to be sincere about it."

Sherlock didn't respond to this; he looked away again, keeping his expression neutral. He had always wanted John to accompany him on this particular quest, but he had, after the previous night, indeed been considering completing it solo.

"And let me make another thing clear," John went on. "It doesn't matter what we're doing or what clues we've found; at 6:00, we're finished—or, at least, I'm finished. I have plans for tonight, and I intend to see them through."

Sherlock exhaled, but nodded.

"Very well; I suppose I'll have to take what I can get. Now… I suggest you take this time to get ready. Finish up whatever breakfast you think you still need to keep yourself going while I dye my hair."

"Right," John said, picking up a piece of toast and cheese, but his hand froze halfway up to his mouth as he fully registered what Sherlock had just said. "I'm sorry… _what_?"

"Well, you don't expect me to go as myself, do you?" the detective said. "As you pointed out, I'm supposed to be dead!"

John responded by rolling his eyes heavenward. Some things would never change. And he would always be grateful for that.


	5. Thus Would it Be

_Notes: if anything seems like a reference to the original ACD canon, it probably is_.

* * *

Despite the doubts that lingered in both the minds of Sherlock and John, there was no denying that, as they walked side by side, it was just like old times… Well, except for the fact that Sherlock had gone from a brunet to a redhead. And John couldn't help but stare at Sherlock's new look, much to the detective's chagrin.

"Will you stop doing that? You're being conspicuous, John."

"I'm sorry, but… Your _hair_… it's…"

"Look, it was either this, or going as a woman. If you honestly expected me to—"

"No, no, no," John said, hastily. "This… this is better. Definitely better."

"Of course it is," Sherlock said, with such conviction that even John could deduce that he was speaking from experience.

The doctor snarked out loud despite himself.

"There's a story behind the way you made that statement, and I want to know what it is," he stated.

"Someday, John. Someday," Sherlock said, unable to resist a smirk of his own. "But, first things first. And remember, when we're out here, I am Erik Sigerson, your old army buddy."

"Right."

"You haven't seen me in a long time—"

"No need to pretend as far as that's concerned…" John muttered.

"—And you've generously agreed to put me up for the night as you won't stand for allowing me to stay in some seedy motel."

"Right, I…" John trailed off, realizing what he had just said. "What!? I don't have the space to accommodate you! You've seen the flat—how tiny it is…"

"I can manage," Sherlock said, waving a hand in dismissal. "The couch will be more than adequate."

"Maybe, but what will you do when my girlfriend gets there tonight?"

"Oh, there's an easy solution for that; just break the date," Sherlock replied. "You can do that, can't you?"

"Not really," John said. "She could be called back to San Francisco any day now; all it takes is a call from her board of directors, and she has to leave. I can't miss a date with her, knowing that."

Sherlock looked to John, hoping that his face wasn't betraying how it did hurt that John was choosing someone else's company over his own after he had—for all practical purposes—come back from the dead.

"I see," he said, at last, which prompted John to sigh.

"Well, I suppose you could stay as long as you stay out of the way when she gets there," he relented. "I wouldn't want to lose you again… I mean, well… It's not safe for you to be in some motel if Moriarty's network is assembling here in London as you say…"

"Ah, John. There are times when I'm grateful that you've got such a soft heart."

"I've also got a fist of iron, and I will use it if I find you getting in the way."

"When have I ever gotten in the way of one of your dates?"

"When _haven't_ you?"

Sherlock scoffed in reply.

"Forget that, then. I just don't see why you would need to entertain this woman at all when I have this case all ready for you."

John facepalmed.

"You really haven't changed a bit, have you? You still think that the world revolves around you and your little whims and fancies. You said yourself back there that you knew I was standing on principle—that Aranea was there for me when you weren't. And that's true. And, in my defense, you left my life in a way that I was expected to believe that you were never coming back."

"So you had me replaced. I see."

"_No_. I'm not like you," John said. "Most people aren't. They don't 'delete' things from their 'mind palaces,' and they certainly don't 'delete' people once they've gone. You'd have still been in my mind."

Sherlock's mouth was thin, not because he was upset at John making a new life without him, but because he was shocked that John could think that Sherlock would ever "delete" John from his mind palace, no matter what the circumstances. Had Sherlock really come across as that heartless?

He pushed this thought aside, knowing that he had no right to blame John at all. He had hurt him severely by what he had done—not just the fall, but things before that. If John was distancing himself to prevent any further heartache, then Sherlock probably had no right to try to tear down the wall that John had built.

"I understand," the detective said, softly. "I have given you more than enough trouble, and I realize I should be grateful that you are accompanying me now."

John's eyebrows arched at how genuinely forlorn Sherlock sounded, but before he could make a comment on it, Sherlock had signaled for him to stop outside the front of a familiar building.

"This is Angelo's restaurant," John realized.

"Of course it is. It's an excellent place for surveillance, as I'm sure you remember from 'A Study in Pink.'" He had used John's case title on purpose.

"Yes, but isn't there a chance that Angelo could recognize you?" John asked, as they headed inside.

"Oh, he knows it's me. I was dependent on him for food and shelter a few days after the fall."

"He knew!?" John exclaimed. "I didn't know, but _he_ did!?"

"I had no choice, John; I thought I covered that!" Sherlock replied. "And the only reason I told him was so that I'd have some amount of nourishment and a warm kitchen floor to sleep on!"

In spite of himself, John's expression softened as he felt pity for his friend.

"You slept on the kitchen floor?"

"Just for the first few nights," Sherlock said. In truth, the kitchen floor had actually been one of the more comfortable places he had been able to rest his head since the fall, but he didn't want to have to divulge that fact to John and have him worry and fret needlessly. And John seemed to be doing so already.

"Where else did you—?"

"There'll be time to talk about that later," Sherlock said, as they took the table by the window.

John had to admit to himself that it was eerie, sitting in the same seat they had sat in during their first case together. But, here they were again, sitting together after John had been certain they'd never get another chance to. It really did feel like a whole new beginning—and, hopefully, it was going to be the start of something good.

Angelo soon came by; he clearly recognized Sherlock, but did not betray his presence, greeting the both of them with a smile.

"We'll start with a glass of wine for each of us," Sherlock sad.

"Ah, actually… no wine for me please," John said. "Just water will be fine."

Sherlock blinked as Angelo nodded and went to get the drinks.

"You've always enjoyed a glass of wine," Sherlock said. "You're not going to work today; you don't have to—"

"It's not that," John said, as the drinks arrived. "It's… kind of embarrassing, actually, but I haven't been able to hold my wine lately."

"What do you mean?"

"Aranea—I told you she was from San Francisco, right? She's got a friend in Wine Country, so she's somewhat of a wine connoisseur herself. Every night we're together, she brings me a new wine to taste."

"And?"

"And nothing. Wine just makes me really sleepy now—even just one glass. You deduced what happened last night; I fell asleep in the middle of _Casablanca_. And you just shut up before you say anything about alcoholism running in families," he added, seeing Sherlock ready to open his mouth.

"No, I know you wouldn't overindulge in drink, especially not with your sister—"

"Can we change the subject?"

"The bar isn't your refuge. For you, it's the racetrack and the casino."

John froze, sputtering as he drank his water.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock said. "Did you really think you could hide it from me, of all people?"

"How long have you known?"

"Since the day after you moved into 221B," the detective replied, calmly drinking his wine. "In several of your boxes, you had old lottery tickets and lists of betting pools—with names circled. A _child_ could have deduced it, John."

"You never said anything…"

"I didn't think it was my place, and, besides, you weren't a chronic gambler—at least, not at the time. Since we parted ways, I will be willing to bet that _your_ bets have increased—an underlying reason why you didn't want to accept my money from Mycroft."

"Can we change the subject again? This wasn't what I…" John trailed off as Sherlock's hand unconsciously traveled to his arm. The doctor looked up at the detective, his eyebrows arched.

Sherlock understood and rolled his sleeve up to show a pair of nicotine patches on his arm. John sighed, but he had to admit that he was grateful that it was just patches, as opposed to puncture marks.

"You're not the only one who's suffered a lack of self-discipline since we parted ways," Sherlock said, quietly.

John took another drink of water before speaking again.

"Well," he said. "Where does that leave us now?"

"Right here, waiting for the game," Sherlock said. "Our weaknesses can wait to be dealt with."

Angelo soon returned to take their order. Sherlock wasn't hungry enough to order anything; John had had to coax him earlier just to eat something from the breakfast that Molly had left for them. But John was still going through the menu and making his selections just as Sherlock's shoulders went rigid as he continued to glance out the window.

"What is it?" John asked.

"One of the network," Sherlock said. "John, put that order on hold; we've got work to do."

He got up, quickly paying Angelo for the drinks before heading out the door with John by his side. Silently, he indicated a man in a dark coat.

"Is that Moran?" John whispered.

"No, but it's someone whom I know is in touch with him," Sherlock replied. "They call him Parker, and with any luck, he'll lead us right to Moran if and when he arrives in London. There's also a chance that Moran will be here already; if we get as close as I think we'll be getting, I'll need you to call Lestrade . I'm going to assume that you are still on speaking terms with Lestrade, seeing as though Molly told me that you've been helping him out with cases on occasion."

"Yeah, but he's pretty much the only one I'm still in touch with," John admitted. "Nobody else wants to talk to me, and the feeling is mutual. And Donovan and Anderson have been avoiding me on purpose."

"How fortunate."

They fell silent after that, not wanting to draw Parker's attention as they pursued him. Sherlock sometimes deviated from the direct path, taking side streets and alleys to keep up with him without making it obvious. More than once, John saw members of his Homeless Network along the way, giving nods of confirmation as Sherlock silently asked them with just a glance as to whether or not Parker had just come through.

It was then that John realized that Sherlock must have had the Homeless Network watching over him, as well; every day, on his way to work, he came across familiar faces on the street, but had never given much thought to them.

He exhaled quietly, realizing that he hadn't given his friend enough credit. If his story about Moriarty threatening to kill if Sherlock hadn't jumped was true (and John had no reason not to believe him at the moment), and he truly had been spending the following months sleeping on kitchen floors and who-knew-where-else, Sherlock had certainly suffered much just to keep him safe.

And now John began to regret his harsh words from earlier when he had accused Sherlock of playing games. This had been no game; this had been a life-or-death struggle the detective had gone through just for John's sake.

The apology forming in John's throat had to be put on hold as Sherlock raised a hand for him to stop in his tracks. Parker had stopped outside a book shop about a yard away from them.

"Well, if that's where this Moran fellow is hiding, I think it's safe to assume that he apparently likes to be well-read…" John mused.

"Moran was second in command in addition to being Moriarty's prized sniper," Sherlock explained. "Now that he's taken the top position vacated by Moriarty at the center of his spider web, it's safe to assume that he's adopted Moriarty's methods of trying to stay out of the direct action as much as possible. It's highly likely that Parker uses that book shop as a place to drop off messages that he doesn't want to risk being overheard by a phone tap—probably using a book-based messaging system very similar to the one from our Blind Banker case. Moran, like Moriarty, has eyes and ears everywhere; he'll know how to get the message if Parker leaves one here."

"Then we ought to see where and how he leaves the message," John finished. "We can decipher it and break their whole coding system, just like we did with the Chinese number system."

"Exactly. But there's a very good chance that the whole shop may be a front for the ring, so we have to be very careful. Now, stay here and be absolutely inconspicuous; I'll let you know when it's safe to follow."

Slowly, he edged his way to the door as Parker entered the shop, a string of bells attached to the door jingling as it swung open and shut. As Sherlock looked through the glass paneling in the door, he could see Parker head straight for the back of the shop, where the shelves of nonfiction books were located.

"Now," Sherlock said, turning back to John. "You can…"

The detective trailed off, his blood going cold. John's eyes were affixed with the same cold, murderous expression that had been in them during their first failed reunion early in the morning. And both of the doctor's darkened eyes were directed right at the detective; their intent was unmistakable.

It was broad daylight. John was wide-awake. And Sherlock was wide-awake, as well; neither of them was dreaming this.

The fact of the matter was that Sherlock had only turned his back on John for a moment, and this had happened; this look of deep-seeded hatred was real, no matter how much Sherlock had been wanting to convince himself that it had all been a terrible mistake… that he had somehow been mistaken about the person he thought had been his dearest—and only—true friend.

John took a step towards him, his eyes piercing into the detective's psyche with a hurt that felt like nothing Sherlock had ever felt before as he realized that the pain of this betrayal was all too real. Sherlock scrambled backwards to get away, now fearful for his life, for John didn't even seem to care about the crowd milling past them on the sidewalk.

But as Sherlock tried to back away, a patron of the book shop suddenly opened the door upon her exiting it, knocking him off of his feet as it slammed into his back, the little bells ringing in his ears as he fell to the pavement.

Sherlock cringed, now scrambling to cover his head and the back of his neck to prepare for the imminent attack…

"Sherlock?"

The detective whipped his head up to look at the doctor. John was standing over him now, but the murderous expression in his eyes was gone, replaced with genuine concern and confusion.

"Are you okay? What did you see in there?"

Disbelief was written all over the detective's pale face. He had not imagined that… not a second time… and yet, how could John stand there, acting as though absolutely nothing had happened?

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock to look through the glass.

"Well, there's nothing there now," he said. "I don't even see Parker. What happened?"

Sherlock didn't respond, his brilliant mind now completely reeling. With that look appearing on John's face for the second time in less than 12 hours, there was only one answer to the doctor's question—an answer Sherlock couldn't bear to accept: that there was a part of the doctor's mind that now hated him to the point of wanting him dead, and it was getting stronger all the time.


	6. If Thy Path Be High, Then Be Mine Low

_Notes: apologies for the lateness of this chapter; things have been hectic and crazy and are promising to be that way for some time, but I shall do my best to keep up with this fic; we're at the halfway point!_

* * *

John did not like the accusatory look on Sherlock's face as the detective stood up, his eyes piercing right into him as he followed Sherlock into the nearest alley to avoid the crowd around them.

"What?" he asked. "Are you blaming me for losing Parker? I did exactly as you told me!"

"You had that look on your face," Sherlock said, flatly. "The same one that you had last night."

John's mouth thinned.

"What are you trying to say?" he asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

"I mean that, this time, you weren't asleep. You were fully conscious. Explain that if you can."

"I can't explain what didn't happen!" John retorted. "You were the one who suddenly spaced out like you'd seen a ghost—!"

"Only because you had that look on your face in the first place!" Sherlock hissed. "I was anticipating an attack from you, just like last night!"

"And that is the _last_ thing I would do consciously—you know that!" John quietly fumed. He then paused, his scowl deepening. "You _do_ know that, right?"

Sherlock glared at him, unblinking, and John realized what the answer was.

"I don't believe this…" the doctor muttered. "After everything we've been through… _You_ don't trust _me_?"

"If you would just put yourself in my place and seen what I had seen, you wouldn't be asking me—"

"Put myself in your place?" John repeated. "No, Sherlock. No. How about _you_ put yourself in _my_ place? Because one of us has a history lying about things to the other, and it isn't me. I wasn't the one who left you to take the blame for that graffiti. I wasn't the one who lied about the memory stick. I wasn't the one who pretended to be _dead_ all this time!"

"Why would I lie about something like this, John?"

"Because it might suit whatever plan you have," the doctor replied. "Just like it suited you to keep me in the dark about how you weren't really dead!"

Sherlock's mouth thinned. Either something really was the matter with John's mind, or he was trying to act as crafty as he possibly could to stop Sherlock from suspecting him. And the detective didn't like either possibility.

As for the possibility that Sherlock had been seeing things again, well… That just couldn't have been possible—not a second time.

And yet… the hurt on John's face… That hurt look was the one he had seen so many times before. It wasn't false. John was truly upset at the second accusation when, in his rational mind, he had done nothing wrong.

So many cases closed… so many problems solved… And he could not do a thing to figure out what was happening to John now.

"I am sorry," he said. "I must have been seeing things again, like last night."

"Don't," John said, shaking his head.

"Don't what?"

"Lie. Don't think that saying what I want to hear is going to make everything okay. You're not even good at that."

"I know," the detective said. "That's why I had you around. You were always better at that; I'd let you talk for me."

"Well, it looks as though things have changed."

"John, no—"

"What? You expect me to keep following you and take these accusations again and again? Give me one good reason why I should."

"Because this is what you love," Sherlock reminded him.

"Maybe it _was_," John said. "But it is very difficult to enjoy it now."

Sherlock leaned against the wall of the building, seriously considering whether or not he should've listened to his brother when he had said that returning was a bad idea. Mycroft knew something, but he still hadn't returned Sherlock's text from last night when he had asked about John; Mycroft was keeping Sherlock in the dark, as well.

The detective was about to speak when, suddenly, he saw Parker walk past the alley, oblivious to their presence.

"And there _he_ goes…" he murmured, and he hastened to the edge of the alley, turning the corner to see the direction in which Parker had gone.

The sound of hurrying feet behind him told him that John was right behind him as he turned the corner and resumed following Parker again.

"He's got a bag of books with him," John observed, quietly. "He must've picked up some information while he was there."

"Then we should try to get that from him," Sherlock said. "How are you at bag-snatching?"

"_What_…?"

"Never mind," Sherlock said. "I'll do it."

He broke into a run, ducking into another alley to take a shortcut so that he could get ahead of Parker, aiming to tackle him as their paths crossed. John shook his head as he followed, trying to keep up.

It was then that the doctor noticed, for a split-second, the flash of a red laser dot flickered on the collar of Sherlock's coat.

And for that split-second, the blood froze in John's veins. Of course, that had to be one of the snipers Sherlock had mentioned during his explanation—perhaps that was even Sebastian Moran himself!

Sherlock's disguise had not been enough—and it was more than likely John's presence that had betrayed the detective's identity. And the doctor certainly was not about to let himself be the reason for Sherlock's death—not when he had come so close to death once before because of him!

John's soldier instinct kicked in that point; he saw another alley entrance out of the corner of his eye, and he darted forward, seizing Sherlock by the arm and quickly dragging him into the alley.

But Sherlock, who had already been on edge because of what had happened outside the bookshop, misunderstood John's actions completely.

The brilliant mind made its deductions, as per usual—going by what he had seen earlier and assuming it was John attacking him. A snarl escaped the detective's lips as John dragged him into the alley, and he quickly seized the doctor's arm and, out of sheer reflex, judo-flipped his poor blogger.

It was as John hit the ground—hard—that Sherlock noticed the small plume of dust rising from a brick a few feet away, by the alley entrance, and saw the red laser light beneath it for an instant before it vanished.

The detective's eyes widened in horrified realization of what had just happened and what he had just done.

"John…!" he exclaimed, kneeling beside him.

The doctor groaned, barely holding on to consciousness, and Sherlock gently lifted him up after making sure he was uninjured, moving further down the alley and out of the line of fire.

"John?"

Gently, he slapped the side of the doctor's face; John winced, but kept his eyes shut.

"I need you to wake up, John. Please."

John opened his eyes, trying to focus. Slowly, he blinked a few times, and as he began to recall what had happened, his face fell as he looked up at Sherlock.

"John, I am so, _so_ sorry," the detective said. "I have made a grave mistake by misjudging your intentions. You may very well have saved my life, and I mistook your courageous actions as an attack upon me."

John stared at him with an unreadable expression for a moment, and then began to look in all directions, even up at the sky.

"John…?" Sherlock asked, growing concerned. He moved a finger back and forth in front of John's eyes, hoping that his gaze would follow him.

"My eyes are fine, and I don't have a concussion," John assured him. "No thanks to you. I was just looking for the flying pigs."

"…What?"

"You. The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting that he was wrong about something. That has never happened before. The foundations of the earth are quaking even as we speak!"

"Sarcasm does not suit you, John."

"And do you want to know what else doesn't suit me? This," John said. "This doesn't suit me anymore. It's not fun anymore, Sherlock. I gave you many, many chances, but you cannot let go of the idea that I consciously tried to attack you, or was about to outside that shop. I am useless as an assistant to you."

"It won't happen again," Sherlock promised. "I know it won't happen again."

"You're right. It won't," the doctor said, quietly. "Because I won't be here. I won't be here for you to keep looking over your shoulder, just to make sure that I'm not pulling a knife on you. I won't be here for you to be suspicious about, so you can focus on the hunt."

"I wanted to do this with you," the detective said.

"Well, it's not working, is it? You don't trust me, and I am in an incredible amount of pain right now, thanks to your knee-jerk reaction and jumping to conclusions. More than that, my presence is proving to be a danger to you. We're finished here, Sherlock. _I'm_ finished. You take care of yourself like you've been doing, because, clearly, I can't do it anymore."

John had pulled away from him as he spoke, clinging to the wall in order sit up, and the two exchanged pained glances with each other.

The detective did open his mouth to speak again, but he stopped himself. Even he, socially awkward as he was, knew darn well that he had gone too far this time. He wanted to trust John unconditionally just like before—when he knew that the doctor had his back, rather than being forced to watch his own back against him.

But more and more, it was looking as though that it would be impossible to go back to the way things were before. And more and more, Sherlock was beginning to believe that it was his fault. He had managed to prevent losing John one way… only to apparently lose him in another.


	7. I Warned Thee More Than Many Times

John took a few more minutes to catch his breath. He was clearing thinking some things over, and he cast a glance down the end of the alley from which they had fled.

"Okay, look…" he said, taking a key out of his pocket and handing it to Sherlock. "This is the spare key to my flat. You go there for a few hours—stay out of sight. Even after what you just did, there's no way I'd want you wandering around with Moran just waiting for you. But you need to clear out of there by 6:00. Molly should be back by then; you can stay at her place. Just… be careful."

"You're not going back, too?" Sherlock asked.

"Would you, if you were me?" John asked him, flatly. "I think we both need some alone time."

He started to limp away, but Sherlock followed him to the opposite end of the alley.

"John, Moran might recognize you."

"I don't intend to be out in the open, either," John said, waving a cab over. "Besides, you're the target, not me." He hesitated. "Actually, you take this cab."

"John—"

"_Take it_."

Sherlock placed his hand on the door handle, a part of him wondering if he would even see John again after this.

"I'll take the next cab—I swear. I'll be at work," John said. "There's no point for you to be out here; Parker's long gone, and you are in considerable danger."

The detective sighed. John had a point; he wouldn't be able to take down Moriarty's network if they got to him first. He got inside the cab, and though he glanced at the key in his hand for a moment, he changed his mind and instructed the driver to take him to the Diogenes Club, feeling s slight sense of relief as he turned around to see John waving another cab over and getting into it.

Sherlock was no stranger to the Diogenes Club, but it was a place he would rather avoid. Nevertheless, he made his way to Mycroft's office. The elder Holmes glanced up as his disguised brother arrived before returning his gaze to his work.

"I did warn you, you know," was all that he said.

"I didn't come here for an I-told-you-so!" Sherlock snapped back. "I came here to find out what happened to John. Something has happened to him; more than once, he… hasn't been himself."

He was reluctant to describe exactly what had been wrong about John in case Mycroft would consider taking drastic measures to ensure that John wouldn't hurt him. The last thing Sherlock wanted was John getting locked up; not only would that be unbearable for the both of them, but John would never forgive him for that.

"I know no more than you do," Mycroft said.

"_That_, I doubt."

"It's true. I am, however, making inquiries. There has been no unusual activity in the proximity of John's flat—no loiterers, no forced entries (yours notwithstanding), and no people that haven't been cleared by the building's security. If John is behaving strangely, well… it would seem that his mind has—"

"Don't say it."

"Do you have any alternate explanations for John's… behavior?"

Sherlock half suspected that Mycroft knew exactly what had transpired last night, but he said nothing.

"I don't," he admitted. "But I intend to find out."

"As do I, Brother. Which is why I, as I already stated, have made inquiries. I hope to have answers as soon as possible. If you wish to wait here, you may receive the answers firsthand."

Sherlock sat down, but then frowned.

"To whom have you made these inquiries?"

"I merely instruct Anthea to find the information I desire; she is the one who sees the channels."

"How convenient."

"Quite."

Sherlock folded his arms and waited, too worried to be bored. But as the hours ticked by with no response, and Mycroft not looking up from his desk, Sherlock began to grow very impatient.

"What is taking so long!?"

"I said that you _may_ receive the answers. I don't know exactly when and if they will arrive."

Sherlock looked to him in disbelief.

"Then this is absolutely pointless! There are things I need to be doing with my time—Moran is out there; he took a shot at me!"

Now Mycroft looked up.

"He took a shot at you?"

"You know I hate repeating myself."

"And you're still here?"

"John pulled me away just in time."

"Nevertheless, Moran does not miss, not even with unexpected heroics," Mycroft said. "You know that."

Sherlock looked to his brother in surprise.

"Then… you're saying…"

"If that was Moran, then he missed on purpose."

"_Why_?" Sherlock asked, furious with himself for not realizing that out-of-character move.

"It would seem that your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps he had to make certain that Erik Sigerson and Sherlock Holmes were one and the same. And what better way to get the answer than—"

"—Getting John to risk his own life to save mine," Sherlock finished. He cringed.

"So now you have another problem, in addition to John's odd behavior," Mycroft said. "You're going to have to find another alias."

"Before that, I'm going to have to make sure that John is safe," Sherlock said, getting up. "Now that Moran knows I'm back in London, John is going to be a target again."

He didn't bother to say goodbye, and Mycroft didn't say anything, either.

* * *

Sherlock knew that it was 6:15—well after the time that John had instructed that he vacate his flat. But there were more important things than ensuring that John's plans with his girlfriend went unspoiled. And that was what brought Sherlock Holmes back outside John's flat. He paused, trying to hear if they were inside.

Sure enough, he could hear voices.

"I brought a very special wine for you to try tonight, John," he heard a female voice say.

_American accent. Well-educated. Confident. Air of a leader. Definitely John's aforementioned businesswoman_.

"Ari, I really shouldn't," John was saying, over the sound wine being poured. "You know what happens when I have any of that American wine—I nod right off!"

"Just a taste then," Aranea pleaded. "Please, John? This one is from my family's collection—my great-grandmother saw to the bottling! It's more than a hundred and twenty years old, and is absolute perfection—I had to sneak a taste this afternoon!"

"Ari…"

"Won't you try it, just for me?"

Sherlock frowned. There was something in her voice he didn't like.

There was a sigh from John.

"Oh, all right… Cheers."

Two glasses clinked together, which was followed by a brief silence.

"Is everything okay, John?"

"Hmm? Fine. Just fine. Why do you ask?"

"You look as though you've got a lot on your mind."

"Well, I'm a doctor. We've always got something on our minds—lucky for the human populace…"

Aranea chuckled, and John continued speaking.

"Actually, Ari… I was wondering if you would like to have dinner out tonight?"

"I thought we were going to eat in?"

"We were, but things got so hectic this morning… I completely forgot to get the groceries."

"I'm not dressed-up enough for going out!"

"You look great, Ari."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, John. How about we order takeout? We can try watching _Casablanca_ again…"

She trailed off; Sherlock had chosen that moment to use the key that John had given him to unlock the door, and her eyes widened at this apparent intrusion.

John's expression was a mix of horror and fury, but Sherlock's first glance was on Aranea—she was in jeans and a t-shirt, her whitish-blonde hair down, not at all looking the part of the businesswoman she clearly was. Sherlock's glance next fell upon her bag by the door; he mentally filed the visible contents as the woman finally cleared her throat.

"Who's this, John?"

"Old army buddy," he replied, through gritted teeth. "Whom I distinctly told to be elsewhere at this time."

"Still no sign of my luggage, John," Sherlock said, putting on a pitiable expression. "And the hotels I can afford are full. You wouldn't mind putting up your old comrade-in-arms, would you?"

"_Yes_."

Aranea cleared her throat.

"Maybe I'd better go, John…"

"No! No, _you_ stay," John said. "_He_ goes!"

"Oh, John, I couldn't possible come between you and an old friend!" she exclaimed.

"Force yourself!"

"No, no… I know what it's like, meeting friends who are always away traveling… I don't want you to regret this. I'll see you tomorrow night?"

"Well, I might still be here…" Sherlock said.

"No, he won't!" John insisted.

"Well, let me know when it's convenient. Maybe we can double! See you, Boys!"

"Ari!" John exclaimed, as she picked up her wine bottle and her bag, waving as she left. He got up and tried to follow her, stopping outside the corridor. "Ari—!"

"John, give it up," Sherlock said. "We have more important things to discuss."

John strode back inside, slamming the door shut.

"I thought I told you to be out of here by six," he hissed.

"Things came up, John. I spoke to—"

"You're not even back twenty-four hours, and you're already resuming your active sabotage of my love life!" John exclaimed. "Isn't it bad enough that I had to deal with your accusations, to say nothing of being judo-thrown in an alley after I tried to save your life—"

"That's what we need to talk about, John. That was a ploy to get the both of us out into the open. Moran had to make sure who I was, and now that he knows, he'll probably be after you, too!"

"So you found it necessary to shoo my girlfriend off of the premises?" John asked. "Don't you think that her presence as a witness might've scared Moran off?"

"Possibly, but you're better off without her," Sherlock said. "She's two-timing you."

Silence.

"_What_."

"I could see it when I glanced into her bag, John," the detective said. "She had a pair of theatre tickets for tonight, what looked suspiciously like a pair of airplane tickets, and I'm sure I saw an evening dress tucked away in there—it's amazing what women can store in those bags; I wouldn't be at all surprised. She knows just as well as you do that you can't hold your wine; she was planning on a rendezvous for after you'd nodded off—that's why she was so insistent on staying in."

John stared—no, _glared_ at him—for a full five minutes.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I… I won't believe it."

"John, come on; you've seen me unmask cheating dates before with even less blatant evidence than this…"

"Yes, but… You've been wrong about many, many things today, Sherlock. I'm convinced that you're wrong about this, too," John said, picking up his phone from the coffee table. "I'm going to text her right now and tell her that I managed to find a hotel for you, so she can come right back here. And then, I'm fixing myself a pot of strong coffee so that I can stay awake and prove you wrong."

"Can I still stay?" Sherlock asked, wryly. "I'd like to be there to see myself proven wrong."

John gave him a look and retreated to his room, phone in hand, leaving Sherlock alone in the sitting room with his thoughts.

It hurt. He wasn't going to deny it. He remembered the days when John willingly (albeit with multiple complaints) shooed his girlfriends to the side to help Sherlock through a case or through his danger nights. The shoe was on the other foot now, and Sherlock didn't like it one bit.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the sound of a small ring from behind John's door—a personalized text alert, no doubt. He sighed, trying to focus on what he could say to convince John that he was truly story and wanted to make amends—now for the things he had done since his return rather than just those before it.

Absently, he began to play with a few coins from a coin jar John had placed on the endtable as he pondered. Well, apologizing about Aranea would probably be a good place to start…

He turned as he heard John's door open, his mouth open to speak… and the words died in his throat.

That look—that murderous look—was back on John's face. And before Sherlock could even react, John leaped at him, closing his hands around Sherlock's throat.

"John—!" the detective gasped, before his air supply was compromised.

Desperately, he gripped at John's hands, trying to pry them loose from his neck, but the soldier only held on, tightening his grip.

Sherlock's vision was beginning to blur, and he knew that this was the prelude to unconsciousness. His body was already getting too heavy to keep himself up; he fell backwards, John still holding onto his throat.

Sherlock knocked the endtable over as he fell. The coin jar fell, as well, the metallic sound of the spilled coins filling the air.

And then, Sherlock saw John's eyes clear, the murderous look replaced by a baffled expression. And that expression was soon replaced by one of utter horror as John saw his own hands clamped around the detective's throat.

Sherlock gasped as John released him, drawing in the welcome air. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to hold on to whatever threads of consciousness he could still grasp; his eyes soon flew open again, anticipating another attack.

He saw John kneeling beside him, but not even looking at him. The doctor was staring at his own two hands, his entire body trembling—_trembling_! Not even at the poolside confrontation with Moriarty had John shaken like this!

John finally looked at him, and Sherlock could see the clear eyes he knew best—eyes that were screaming in silent agony and horror as he fully grasped what had just happened—that Sherlock had been right all this time and had not been mistaken… that he really had just tried to kill his best friend…

"_Oh, God_…" he gasped, taking every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep himself from screaming those two words.

Sherlock forced himself to sit up, not breaking the gaze that he and John were holding. Weakly he extended a hand to the soldier.

"John…"

But John recoiled from him as though the detective's very touch was unbearable. And, perhaps, in this moment of horrified realization, it _was_.

John jumped to his feet, and without so much as a word, fled out his own front door.

"John!" Sherlock called, his voice still raspy. "John, don't! There has to be an explanation—if we only just figure this…"

He trailed off, despairing. He knew John was out of earshot.

"…Out," he finished, sadly.

Once again, Sherlock Holmes had been proven right. And things had only gotten worse because of it.


	8. Soon They Shall Be Covered

"Terrible" didn't even begin to describe how badly John felt. Not only had he attacked Sherlock—more than once, apparently—he had outright refused to believe the detective when he had told him about it.

It had all been true… but it still left one all-important question: _Why_?!

_Why_ would he attack Sherlock? Yes, John was angry about the deception—who wouldn't be? But his joy and relief eclipsed that anger… didn't it?

The doctor groaned, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles. Something was going on in his head, and until he knew exactly what it was, Sherlock was in danger just by being near him, and that was something John couldn't allow.

John nearly jumped a foot in the air as, suddenly, a car pulled up beside him. He recognized it immediately, even before the window rolled down to reveal Anthea, her expression serious as she beckoned him to sit.

The doctor exhaled. Yes, he had been avoiding any and all contact with Mycroft since the fall; he would never forgive him for giving Moriarty the information he had needed to discredit Sherlock. But John was certain that Mycroft had found out about the attack just now, and he knew he would have to answer for that.

He gave a nod, and Anthea opened the door. He sat down, not even looking at her as they traveled to the Diogenes Club. Somehow, John managed to keep his expression neutral as he entered Mycroft's office.

"I suppose you are aware of why I had you brought here, aren't you, John?" the elder Holmes said. "My brother was here himself, as well—a few hours ago."

"How much did he tell you?" John asked.

"Not a lot—not that he needed to, of course. He gave hints that your behavior was not as it usually is…"

"I attacked him," John confessed. "Twice. I didn't even realize it until the second time—I snapped out of it and saw what I was doing…" His voice cracked at the very thought. "When I thought he was dead, I would've given anything to have him back. I don't understand why I would attack him so violently…"

"My initial suspicions were that it was some sort of a psychotic break on your part brought about by the sudden shock of Sherlock's return," Mycroft said, calmly. "Your relief upon his return was dissonant with the anger you felt realizing that you were deceived and abandoned."

"How do I make it stop?" John pleaded. "How do I fix it? I don't want to be a danger to Sherlock—not when I've finally gotten him back…!"

"You have too little faith in yourself, John," Mycroft said. "Even Sherlock refused to entertain the idea that this was, indeed, the case." He paused, selecting his words carefully. "While there still is every possibility that my initial assumptions are correct, some recent evidence suggests that my brother might be more correct than I am."

"Wh-What?" the doctor asked. "What do you mean?"

Mycroft didn't answer; he merely looked to the door as a familiar woman in a white lab coat entered his office.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," she said, with a sad smile. "I wish we didn't have to meet again under these circumstances, but, as it is…"

"Doctor Stapleton?" John asked. "I'm afraid I don't understand. What do you have to do with all of this?"

"She was there in Baskerville when you and Sherlock uncovered the truth about the H.O.U.N.D. project," Mycroft reminded him. "You remember what that project was about… don't you, John?"

"Of course. It's a drug that rendered people susceptible to suggestion, but it ended up making them crazy and violent…" John trailed off, his eyes widening as he covered his mouth with his hand, simultaneously horrified and relieved at the realization. "I've been drugged!? How!? By who!? And why!? …Actually, never mind the why; I can figure that out by myself…"

"There was a security breach in Baskerville a few months ago," Dr. Stapleton said. "And we found that someone had hacked into the information concerning the H.O.U.N.D. project. The elder Mr. Holmes and I both think that you've been slipped a modified, milder version of the drug. Some unknown stimulus has been given to you as a suggestion; whenever you are exposed to this stimulus, you're compelled to attack the younger Mr. Holmes."

John exhaled again. On the one hand, it wasn't his fault. He was not deliberately trying to inflict any harm upon his friend. That was something to be thankful for, but his problem was not solved by any means.

"What happens now?"

"Now, you will permit Doctor Stapleton to take a sample of your blood," Mycroft said. "We know that the drug is being slipped to you at regular intervals, and not necessarily by aerosol this time around. As you recently had an… episode, we can assume that the drug is still in your system right now, if this theory of ours is true. And if we can determine the modifications made to the drug, then we may be able to take some sort of action to keep you from hurting Sherlock any further."

"You can make an antidote?" John asked, rolling his sleeve back to allow Stapleton to take the sample. "Yeah… Yeah, that would be good. Very good."

"Assuming we can make an antidote," Stapleton said, withdrawing the needle when she had finished. "If it's modified and milder as we think, it may be possible, but it will take time to develop the antidote. Until then, you need to isolate the source of the stimulus that triggers the suggestion that's been given to you."

"Right," John said, as he pulled his sleeve back down. "I'll try to figure that out now that I know what's going on—"

"Do keep in mind that this is still only just a theory, John," Mycroft reminded him. "Just like the theory I had earlier. It could turn out that this one is wrong, and my earlier one is correct. As it is, for your sake, as well as my brother's, I will hope that this current theory is the one that holds true—for I fear that neither you nor he could deal with the consequences of it being any other way."

John didn't say anything.

"Which brings me to another question," the elder Holmes continued. "What will you tell my brother when you next see him?"

John blinked.

"The truth?" he offered.

"And if you tell Sherlock that there is a likely possibility that you have been drugged, you know what will happen, don't you?"

"I imagine he would be absolutely furious and vow to track down the perpetrator himself…" John began, and then he cringed. "…And he'd put himself right in Moran's sights again."

"And we can't have that, can we?" Mycroft asked.

John turned to look at him, the two of them trying to read each other as the minutes passed by.

"I know what I have to do," John said.

"And that would be…?" Mycroft prompted.

"I have to tell him that it was a psychotic break that caused me to attack him—at least until we find out more about what's going on." John sighed. "Now I'm beginning to understand why he had to lie to me for so long."

"I am glad you are beginning to understand," Mycroft said. "I am sure Doctor Stapleton will see that her colleagues work as quickly as possible so that your deception will not have to last as long as Sherlock's did."

John nodded, shutting his eyes. He wanted Sherlock's company so very badly after being separated for as long as they had been—despite all the hurt and accusations, which had turned out to be true, anyway. But, for the moment, he was a danger to his closest friend, and John knew that more time apart now would be a much better alternative than being the reason for Sherlock's real death.

And then, of course, was the question of whether or not Sherlock would forgive him for this deception he was about to commit. On the other hand… who would know better about something like that than Sherlock himself? John ran a hand through his sandy hair as he realized that the thoughts he was having now must've been very similar to those Sherlock must've had before the fall.

Doctor Stapleton cleared her throat.

"I need to take the sample back to the lab so they can have it analyzed," she said. "By your leave, Mr. Holmes…"

Mycroft waved his hand in dismissal—in a manner not too different from his younger brother—and Doctor Stapleton left.

"And where is Sherlock now?" he asked, after she had gone.

"I left him back at my flat," John said. "He wanted to talk to me after I had snapped out of it, but I didn't trust myself to be in the same room as him, so I ran for it. and then Anthea found me."

"When are you going to tell him?"

"As soon as I get back. I expect you'll be able to find him at Molly's after the shock wears off."

"He still might not leave, even after you tell him," Mycroft warned. "I know how stubborn my brother can be."

"Oh, I know it, too," John said, fervently. "I'll find a way to get him out of my flat—even if I have to physically throw him out."

Mycroft snickered.

"What was that for?"

"Take if from someone who has thrown Sherlock out of his room countless times during our youth," Mycroft said. "That will be absolutely useless. Now is not the time for reminiscing, but I could tell you stories of how he continuously broke into my room through the window."

"That explains a lot. But what do you suggest, then?"

"Oh, I think you know, John. You know that my brother was a loner before he met you. You've changed him. You've given him strength. However…"

John's eyebrows arched.

"You've also given him a weakness, John," Mycroft went on. "It's a very dangerous weakness—one that Moriarty has already exploited more than once."

Unbidden came the mental images of the poolside confrontation with Moriarty, when Sherlock had been more horrified than John could've ever believed—horror at first thinking that John was Moriarty, and then after realizing that John was Moriarty's hostage…

And then there was the fall. Hadn't Sherlock explained only this past morning that Moriarty had threatened John, as well as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade?

John shut his eyes and sighed.

"I'm going to have to do a lot more lying than I first thought…"

"That is exactly what Sherlock said to me after revealing to me that he was alive," Mycroft said. "I know you will regret it as much as he did… and still does."

"I'm sure you'll help convince him of my lies as you did for his?" John asked.

"Indeed; I'll be certain to rub in how he forgot to heed the sage piece of advice I once gave him."

"What was that?"

"That 'caring isn't an advantage.'"

John bit his lip.

"You disagree?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually. But for the sake of this charade, I'm going to let you tell him that."

The doctor stood up, heading for the door, but stopped as Mycroft spoke again.

"You do realize, of course, that it was your concern for each other that forced him to take a fall and go into exile? It is also what forced you to go through all the grief you went through, to say nothing of the torment you are about to inflict upon him. Can you really take all that into consideration and still tell me that I'm wrong?"

"Yes," John said. "It makes him human."

The doctor left without another word, closing the door behind him.

And, despite himself, Mycroft acknowledged the doctor's bravery and selflessness. If Sherlock absolutely had to allow himself the weakness of caring for someone, then he couldn't have picked anyone better.

Perhaps that was why, then, that Mycroft hoped that this upcoming deception from John would only create another temporary hiatus for their friendship, as opposed to ending it completely—one way or another.


	9. Go Thy Way, and Soon I Shall Go Likewise

John was grateful to find out that Mycroft had arranged for the car to take him back to his flat; he wasn't at all prepared for a long walk back for the sole purpose of throwing Sherlock out after lying to him.

When he did arrive, he found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, an uncharacteristically lost expression in his eyes. The detective's head turned to face him upon his arrival, and though he gave an initial start, he calmed down after seeing that John was in a normal state—for the moment, anyway.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Listen, um…" John ran a hand through his hair as he internally steeled himself. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you about the—"

"It's fine," Sherlock said. "The important thing is that you're aware of it now. We… we can devise some sort of a solution."

"No, we can't."

"…What?"

"Sherlock, I… Well, that is to say… I just had a long phone call with my therapist while I was out there," John said. "She wasn't too pleased to be bothered so late, but we talked, and it seems that I… I haven't taken to your return well."

"Obviously," the detective said, rolling his eyes.

"No, what I mean is… I was… I'm still too furious about everything you put me through, and yet I want to be happy that you're back. This whole thing has been too much for me; I've had some sort of a psychotic break—"

"No!" Sherlock retorted. "That's exactly what Mycroft thought; I refuse to believe that he was right!"

"Sherlock, will you listen to yourself?!" John shot back. "Denial won't do either of us any good! You know best that you have to trust what you see! You admitted yourself that you don't know how ordinary brains work—those belonging to people of average intelligence! We don't have mind palaces to throw our problems in; sometimes, when a problem is too big, it's too much. And you are my biggest problem right now—you've been for years!"

Sherlock's mouth thinned, and John knew that he had to continue.

"I've finally—_finally_—found it possible to make peace with everything that's happened," John said. "Everything was going so wonderfully. And then you decide that you want things to be back to the way they were before. And I just realized what that means—you'll be driving me absolutely mad, sending me all over London to pick up information that you'll later claim was just stating the obvious or completely wrong. You'll be luring all sorts of killers and murderers right to me—you saw what happened with Moran!"

"John—"

"That's not going to work anymore!" John quipped back. "You need an assistant? Go ask Molly; she was the one you found trustworthy enough to share your secret! You didn't need me since… _then_. Why do you need me now?"

If the situation had been completely different, John probably could have appreciated the fact that he had finally succeeded in getting Sherlock Holmes to sit dumbfounded, at a loss for words.

"You don't need me," John went on. "You told me so yourself. _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me_."

"And you said that friends protect people," Sherlock countered, standing up to confront John with his full height.

"Well, it looks like I was wrong, wasn't I?" John said, with an offhand shrug. "But how is that a surprise—average, ordinary John Watson, being wrong? Because, as we all know, Sherlock Holmes is always right."

Sherlock had opened his mouth to retort, but not a single word formed. As the detective looked on, John silently opened the door of the flat and gestured to the threshold.

"Get out of my flat."

"John, you can't—"

"Ah, actually, I am." He pointed to the corridor again. "_Out_. Molly will do anything for you; you know that. But the days when I did are long gone."

"You would throw your best friend out?"

John affixed Sherlock with a cold stare.

"My best friend is _dead_. The dead don't come back. The dead can't come back."

"John—"

"GET OUT!"

He had to shout. If he hadn't, John was certain his voice would've broken as much as his heart was breaking.

Sherlock seemed to be in some sort of daze as he sat back down, staring at John… Well, staring through him, it seemed.

"Right," John said. "I get it. The great and brilliant Sherlock Holmes is never used to things not going his way. I'll be merciful enough to give you time to grab ahold of this novel concept!"

"John… why are you doing this?"

"I'm going out; I'll be back in twenty minutes. And when I return, you'd better be out of here, or I'll call Lestrade and report an unwelcome trespasser. And then you can explain to him all about this."

"You wouldn't…" Sherlock said.

John responded with the coldest look he could muster.

"Try me. No, really—try me. Testing my limits was always a hobby of yours, remember?"

Sherlock's look of disbelief now morphed into a scowl.

"This has gone far enough, John!"

"That's exactly what I've been saying—so glad to see that we're finally on the same page now!"

"No!" Sherlock barked, getting back to his feet. "This isn't you, John! You're not this…"

"Cold?" John finished. "Cynical? I have to tell you the same thing I told Stamford—I'm not the John Watson you remember. You don't go unchanged from certain things, Sherlock." He paused. That actually was true. "You're just going to have to accept that, whether you like it or not."

"I _don't_ like it," Sherlock hissed.

"I'm not too crazy about it myself," John retorted. "But you do realize that there's only one person to blame for it?"

Sherlock's mouth thinned again.

"I told you—I did it to save you!"

"And you had plenty of opportunities to let me know that you were, in fact, alive," John said. "But you didn't." He pointed to his watch. "Twenty minutes—unless you really would like to explain things to Lestrade."

He started to walk out the door, and Sherlock found himself unintentionally echoing the very same two words John had said just before he had jumped.

"No, don't…"

The irony was not lost on John, who steeled himself one more time.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

He didn't look back; he didn't trust himself to keep up the charade if he did. Looking into Sherlock's eyes, he had seen the genuine hurt that lay within them. Mycroft had been right; John had been responsible for making Sherlock more human.

Perhaps that was what made this the cruelest twist of fate of all.


	10. Behold My Footsteps, But Follow Not

Sherlock tried to steel himself after John's abrupt departure. Things just hadn't gone the way he had intended. But that meant nothing, right? Sherlock Holmes had always worked best alone, hadn't he?

_No_, he silently admitted.

And the detective's head began to reel again with both emotions and unanswered questions.

John was smarter than people gave him credit for. Sherlock had seen it right away, and though he did snark about John having "average intelligence," the truth of the matter was that John was not so simple-minded to arrive at such a conclusion—that he did hate Sherlock.

Sherlock knew better than anyone; he had been there, after all, on most of the many occasions that John visited his empty grave, including the time when John had pleaded for "one more miracle."

Sherlock realized that he could do with a miracle right now—the answer to all of this, and to find out why John was acting this way.

"It must be an act," he muttered aloud. "Everything he said… His blog post… His casefiles…"

Sherlock trailed off, glancing at the files that John had compiled during their time as a team. John had kept everything—even those ridiculous post-it note conversations, which usually entailed more snarky comments.

It was as he paged through it that Sherlock noticed that one of the post-it notes—one of the ones he had written—had apparently fallen off, the adhesive worn off. John had taped it back in its previous spot, and judging by the look of the tape, it couldn't have been done more than a couple days ago.

_He had been reading this again within the last couple of days_, the detective realized. _And that is completely dissonant with what he just told me_.

Sherlock shut his eyes, recalling everything—the blog post declaring that John would always believe in him, the heartfelt words spoken to an empty grave, and now these casefiles, so carefully maintained and preserved…

It didn't make sense. And if there was one thing that Sherlock Holmes couldn't stand, it was something not making sense.

A text alert chiming from the floor jolted him from his thoughts. Glancing at the carpet, he saw John's phone lying where it had landed during the last time John had lost himself and attacked him.

And that was when something clicked in Sherlock's mind. If John's phone had been there on the floor all this time, then his story about calling his therapist could not have been possible.

_He lied!_ Sherlock realized. And then he proceeded to mentally curse himself for not seeing it sooner; John had never been able to successfully lie to him before. Clearly, Sherlock's emotions were getting in the way of is deductive reasoning skills, just as Mycroft had warned him.

Exhaling, the detective picked up the fallen phone. John's passcode for it hadn't changed—not that it would've taken Sherlock long to crack a new one. But that was soon the least of his concerns as he glanced at the message.

_Blood tests positive; proceeding to begin work on antidote. Still unsure of method of transfer, but it's not aerosol this time. –Stapelton_.

And the pieces proceeded to fall into place.

_Drugged_, Sherlock internally fumed. _Not psychotic—drugged!_

John—stupid, selfless John—had put on this entire charade just to keep Sherlock out of it.

"You _are_ an idiot," he murmured aloud. "But you're not so much of an idiot to let yourself get drugged so easily. How on earth did someone manage to slip a drug to you?" He glanced at Stapleton's message again. "'Not aerosol this time,'" he quietly repeated. "Then, was it subcutaneously transmitted? Or…" He trailed off as his gaze fell upon the wineglass on the coffee table—a small amount of the red liquid still inside. "_Ingested_."

Gingerly, he picked the glass up and sniffed at the wine. He couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary, but John's words from earlier ran through his head again.

"_It's… kind of embarrassing, actually, but I haven't been able to hold my wine lately."_

It took every ounce of self-control that the detective possessed not to slam the glass down; he was furious with not being able to have pinpointed John's alleged girlfriend as having ulterior motives for being with him. Moran must have put her up to this, which meant that the flat would be under observation.

Sherlock clenched a fist; Moran had probably ordered Aranea to rendezvous John now that he had stormed out—either to dose him up again, or distract him long enough for Moran to dispatch of Sherlock before he could return.

The detective now stood clear of the windows, fuming. He had to find John before that woman did. But where could he possibly have gone?

Sherlock shut his eyes, trying to think of a logical answer within his mind palace. He found none. And yet, John was not the kind of person to wander aimlessly—not when he knew that Moran was out and about.

Almost reluctantly, Sherlock looked into that part of his mind palace that he rarely ventured into—the place where he hid the sentiment that he very often refused to acknowledge the existence of. Mentally, he searched for an answer as to where John would go.

And then his eyes snapped open.

"_Yes_."

He grabbed John's phone and slipped it into his pocket before heading out the door.

* * *

John's fingers absently gripped the arm of the chair he was sitting in—his chair. Well, it had been his chair, at one point. It had been his chair until after Sherlock's fall—in what had once been home.

He idly wondered why his old key had still managed to work the front door of 221 B; he would've expected Mrs. Hudson to have changed the locks. Then again, perhaps she hadn't done so in the hopes that John would, one day, come back.

And here he was—just as Sherlock had been the reason for him first arriving in the flat, the detective was, once again, the reason why he was here, albeit for reasons quite dissimilar.

The doctor sighed, staring absently at Sherlock's empty chair for several minutes—and then suddenly jumped as he heard the detective's voice behind him.

"I've often sat in that chair," Sherlock said. "Wishing you were in this one. I never could stay in London for very long, but I always did try to stop here whenever possible."

John leaped to his feet, turning to face him.

"What are you doing here?!" he hissed.

"Getting out of your flat, as you ordered me to," Sherlock replied, simply. "I would ask you what you are doing here, but I don't need to."

"Yeah, well, my therapist suggested coming here to vent my feelings," John lied, quickly jumping back to his story.

"Kind of hard for your therapist to tell you anything when you never had your phone on you," Sherlock said, pulling the device from his pocket. "It was on the floor the entire time—ever since you ran out after the last time the drug took effect on you."

John's mouth fell slightly open, and then he facepalmed.

"I really must give you credit, John," Sherlock went on. "You did have me believing that you had developed a deep hatred for me. But now I see what this is about; you lied to protect me, just as I did for you. Exactly how long did you intend to keep me in the dark?"

"You have no right—_absolutely no right_—to ask me that!" John snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at the detective. "At least I didn't fake my death and force you to watch it!"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but, once again, he found himself at a loss for words. He hadn't even been ready to admit to himself how hurt he had felt, thinking that John truly wanted nothing more to do with him. How could he possibly tell John that?

But as he doctor glanced at him, it soon became clear that Sherlock didn't have to say anything. John's ability to read people was, indeed, different than Sherlock's, but this ability was still very astute.

"…You believed me," John realized. "You actually believed I was being serious! If I hadn't dropped my phone, you wouldn't have figured it out, would you?"

Sherlock looked away, which was the confirmation that John needed.

"I didn't think I'd have been able to fool you more than a minute. Either you're really out of practice, or you really do think that you've given me reason to hate you."

"Haven't I?"

"I suppose you have," John admitted. "It was cruel, what you did. You could've at least told me somehow, after it was all over. Instead, you left me to pick up the pieces and try to clear your name."

"And yet, you never did believe my lies—not even once," Sherlock said. "…I regret that I allowed myself to believe yours, even for a short while. I use logic to think, John; you know that. And I led myself to believe that you did intend me harm or ill will based on what I was seeing—and what you were telling me."

"That was my intent," John reminded.

"As it was my intent for you to believe that I was a fake," Sherlock said. He gave a quiet scoff as his reflection in the mirror. "You didn't fall for it, but I did. How, John? How did you succeed where I failed?"

"Because I don't always use logic," the doctor replied. "Sometimes, logic isn't the most helpful thing. Maybe if you'd realized that when you were dealing with Moriarty, you might not have put me through dealing with the aftermath."

"We can deal with that after we've dealt with this," Sherlock said, holding up John's phone again. "Doctor Stapleton is working on the antidote, and—"

"Excuse me; I believe you said that _we_ are going to deal with this?" John asked, silencing him by raising his hand. "_We_ are not dealing with this. _You_ are not a part of this."

"Considering that this entire plot is to get you to kill me, I would think that I am very much a part of this!" Sherlock countered.

"And that's exactly why you can't be anywhere near me until that antidote is ready."

"Oh, for—"

"Sherlock, you cannot be a part of this!" John insisted. "I promised Mycroft—"

"Forget about him!" Sherlock retorted.

"Even if I do forget about him, I'm not about to let you be a part of this," John said. "I will _not_ take the chance of being responsible for your death! You had me in the dark for my own safety; now I have to return the favor."

"So is this really you insisting on trying to protect me, or is this your way of getting revenge?"

"A bit of both," John admitted. "But you'll be alive. We still don't know how the drug is being slipped to me, or what the method of suggestion was, and until we figure it out—"

"But I _have_ figured it out, John," Sherlock said, the familiar spark of deduction blazing in his eyes. "When I first entered your flat and tried to awaken you, the suggestion had already been given to you. You stopped attacking me the moment your silverware drawer spilled. You next had that look in your eyes outside the bookshop—just after the bell upon the door rang. You snapped out of it almost instantly—when the bell rang a second time. The third time, you attacked me after you received a personalized text alert that sounded like a ringing bell, and you stopped when I spilled your jar of coins in the struggle."

"High-pitched metallic ringing," John breathed. "It was as simple as that, you mean?"

"…Obviously," Sherlock replied, before he could stop himself.

John glanced sharply in his direction, but, to Sherlock's relief, the doctor's expression relaxed.

"Are you certain you still want me not to be a part of this?" the detective asked. "I can help you, John; now that I know what's going on, I can be of assistance."

John's mouth thinned, and Sherlock's eyebrows arched.

"Now it looks as though you're the one trying not to give into logic," the detective accused. "You know the logical thing to do is to order to me go, just as you threw me out of your flat. But you don't want to, do you?"

"I never wanted you to jump, either," John reminded him. "So, it's not as though I can force you. But you really should go into hiding again—we know the trigger now, but we still don't know how I got drugged."

"Actually, I know that, too," Sherlock said. He had been avoiding this revelation for John's sake.

"Oh?"

"John, you have to understand that I'm not saying this to dissuade you from your choice of company," Sherlock began. "What I said earlier about your girlfriend seeing someone else is true. Whether romantically or not, she is connected to Moran."

"_What_?!" John exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that she was the one who drugged me?!"

"I have no reason to lie to you about it," Sherlock said, calmly. "Even though you seem convinced that I do. It was your comment about not being able to hold your wine anymore that made me realize that she had added something to it."

"But the bottles were always sealed—"

"Injected through the cork with a syringe," Sherlock responded.

John opened his mouth to respond, but his blood ran cold as a third voice spoke instead.

"Very clever, Mr. Holmes," Aranea said, stepping out from her hiding place with a gun in her hand. "Very clever, indeed."


	11. I Prithee

Sherlock silently cursed himself for not realizing that Aranea had been hiding here all along. He had allowed sentiment to cloud his observational skills, and yet…

His thoughts trailed off, unfinished, as he saw John's expression—shock, anger, betrayal…

"Ari…" John said, shaking his head. "Ari, why?"

She turned sharply to him, aiming the gun.

"I'm sorry, John," she said. "But there's much about me that you don't know. Jim Moriarty has done more for me than you could ever understand. I was facing utter ruin for something I had done. That was when a very dear gentleman friend recommended the Consulting Criminal to me."

"A very dear gentleman friend?" Sherlock repeated. "Obviously the one whom you were planning to see last night."

"You knew, then?" she asked. "Well, of course you would. The great Sherlock Holmes—the genius who faked his suicide. Why wouldn't you have known?" She looked to John. "And you, John. You didn't believe him, did you? You believed _me_."

"I did believe him," John said. "He's always right. I just didn't want to admit it. But I couldn't have guessed that you were working for Moriarty all this time." He refrained from asking whether or not the entire charade had been an act on her part.

"Well," she said, casually shrugging. "Jim helped me out of that legal jam; I was soon out of prison—the entire affair labeled a whole misunderstanding, and my honor was restored. So, when Sebastian Moran asked me to pay back an IOU—"

Sherlock let out an involuntary hiss, prompting Aranea to smirk.

"It was the least I could do for the late Jim Moriarty," she said. "Speaking of which, I have a message for you from him."

Keeping the gun trained on Sherlock now, she pulled a small tablet PC from her bag and switched it on. A video clip of Moriarty appeared on the screen; Sherlock froze as John quietly cursed.

"Well, hello there, Sherlock," Moriarty said, smirking. "And you, too, Johnny-boy; I know you're there. I really do regret ruining what was to be a joyous reunion, but… Sherlock and have a problem that we need to solve. You just got caught in the crossfire. I expect that he's doing his best to keep you in the dark, so I don't see any reason to tell you anything. But let me just say one thing—_thank you_."

John frowned, angry and confused.

"What…?"

"Thank you for giving Sherlock Holmes the one weakness that I could exploit," Moriarty continued. "You made things _so_ easy for me. And that was why I just couldn't resist having you be the one to do my work for me. Oh, I do wish I could've been able to see the look on Sherlock's face when you attacked him. Not to worry, though; I'm sure I got a great view from the other side."

"This isn't possible," Sherlock said. "How could he have planned this so well in advance?"

"I'm about to meet Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's," Moriarty went on. "And the plan is to have both of us meet our ends there. But, knowing Sherlock, he's going to weasel his way out of it. So, I'm coming up with this backup plan; I know I won't be there to see it through, so I'm leaving it in the capable hands of my successor, Sebastian. I don't know how long it's taken, but I'm sure it's worked."

Sherlock clenched a fist, prompting Aranea to point the gun at him again.

"I suggest you keep listening, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"How long did it take you, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked. "How long did you believe that Johnny-Boy had it in for you? Well, I suppose I'll be able to hear it from you soon enough; it's my intent to finish our final problem here, if my first plan fails.

"You know by now, don't you? Miss Vulsor here was able to get close to your little sidekick—I'm sure you were in hiding for a while, which made it awfully easy to do. You really should've taken Johnny-Boy into your confidence, Sherlock; it's a fortunate thing for me that you're so predictable."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to John, who still had a hurt look on his face.

_I am sorry, John_, he silently transmitted. _Honestly_.

"But, despite being predictable, you _are_ intelligent," Moriarty added. "You found out—the sound of the bell activating the suggestion induced by the drug, courtesy of Miss Vulsor's wine. And John was, undoubtedly, self-sacrificing enough to distance himself and come back here, to your old haunt.

"So, Sherlock, you can relax knowing that your little friend here doesn't really hate you. He couldn't help himself when he attacked you. But I'm afraid you're not going to be able to enjoy it for much longer."

"John, get away," Sherlock quietly ordered, sounding calmer than he felt. "Get out of here while you still can."

"Don't move," Aranea warned, switching her aim back and forth to the both of them. "Both of you stay put."

"I had no intention of going, anyway," John retorted, glaring at her.

"Miss Vulsor, if she has fulfilled her end of the bargain—which I don't doubt, as I'm assuming you two are hearing this—currently has the both of you within point-blank range," Moriarty continued. "One word to her, and our final problem ends here. But, really, where's the fun in that?"

The Moriarty in the clip now raised a small bell into view, and all the color drained from John's face.

"No…"

"Now _this_," Moriarty said. "This is much more entertaining. Are you listening, Johnny-Boy? The bell tolls for thee."

John clamped his hands over his ears, trembling as Moriarty rang the bell. It was no use, however; John's expression went slack, his shoulders rigid as the sound still reached him. He shut his eyes, trying to resist.

"Sher… Sherlock…"

"John…" the detective said, calmly. "John, it's fine. It's all right." _Never mind yourself right now. Make sure John gets out of here alive_.

The fact that Aranea still had the gun trained on them was the one thing preventing him from going over to John.

"Can't… control…" John said, wincing.

"Then you are not to blame for whatever happens here," Sherlock insisted. He knew his chances of leaving the flat were next to nothing, but he had to ensure John's safety—and somehow keep him from being eaten away by guilt if the worst should happen. "Mycroft knows about the drug; you will not be held responsible—"

John doubled over, hissing.

"Not… okay," he said.

"John," Aranea said. "John, I'd rather not see anything happen to you. You do grow on a person, you know? I can see why you even managed to make Sherlock Holmes semi-sociable."

"Shut up," Sherlock ordered. "You have absolutely no right to address him in such a manner."

"And you do?" she asked. "You were the one who abandoned him; you made it easy for me to get close. What gives _you_ the right to address him?"

John shuddered again, and Sherlock quickly realized that Aranea was deliberately trying to make him more susceptible to the suggestion by feeding him negative thoughts about Sherlock.

"John," she said. "Just stop resisting. It'll all be over soon if you just stop fighting. You'll be able to leave. And you won't remember a thing."

"John isn't as simple-minded as you and Moriarty seem to think," Sherlock retorted. "If Moriarty's goal is to ensure that I die here, then you may as well do it now rather than force John to—"

John now threw a punch at Sherlock, his fist connecting with his jaw. Sherlock stumbled backwards from the blow, stars blinking in his vision.

"What was that you were saying, Mr. Holmes?" Aranea mused.

Sherlock didn't have a chance for a retort; John had thrown another punch in his direction, and the detective quickly dove aside. John swore loudly as his fist connected with the wall, and Sherlock cringed in spite of himself.

"John!" he called. "John, you're only hurting yourself; remain calm! The drug has to wear off eventually; if you can hold out until then—"

John wasn't listening now; the influence of the drug was too much. Aranea's eyes suddenly widened in fear as he ran at her next instead of the detective. She tried to aim her gun at him, but in one quick movement, he had twisted her wrist and disarmed her, picking up the weapon.

For a moment, Aranea feared for her life, but this moment soon passed as he turned around to point the gun at Sherlock.

"Wait…!" the detective exclaimed, slowly raising a hand to try to make himself look as non-threatening as possible. "John, think about what you're doing!"

But John did not answer, aiming the gun at Sherlock's forehead.

The video clip of Moriarty, which had been silent all this time, now spoke again.

"Well, I'm assuming that's enough time for you to have given enough of a beating to Sherlock," he said. "You know what to do now, Johnny-Boy."

The doctor's brow furrowed, part of him still trying to resist.

"Finish him."


	12. Thou Makest Me Free

It wasn't the prospect of death that Sherlock Holmes feared; he had stared down the barrels of guns more times than he could've counted. No; it was the prospect of his life ending by the hands of the one person he had trusted most in the world. With the world already presuming that he was dead, he knew that John would not be held accountable for this—even Mycroft would understand.

But John would never be able to live with himself after this.

And that was what Sherlock Holmes feared the most. He had to stay alive—not for himself, but for John.

"John," he said, raising his arms in a defensive position. "John, listen to me. Focus on my voice. Just wait and listen to me before you make another move."

John had his finger on the trigger, that horrible look still in his eyes. Yet, he did pause as Sherlock spoke to him. The detective took this as a hopeful sign.

"Once I've had my say, you're free to do whatever you want," he continued. "John… I'm sorry. I am so sorry you went through everything after the fall. You were right; I shouldn't have kept you in the dark—not for as long as I did. If I hadn't, we probably wouldn't be in this situation right now."

"Are you quite finished?" Aranea asked.

"Shut up," Sherlock said to her, and he turned back to John. "More than that, John, I am sorry that I ever doubted you."

John's gaze, which had been focused on Sherlock's forehead, now met the detective's.

"You know the way I think, John. I think using logic—I interpret what my senses tell me, and everything my senses were telling me indicated that you had an intent to harm me. And that's exactly what Moriarty was counting on. But you… You think with your heart. Had our positions been reversed, you would not have doubted me…" Sherlock trailed off, remembering the heartfelt words John would say at the empty gravesite, the carefully-maintained casefiles—post-it notes and all—and the one-sentence blog post that was John's declaration to the world that he would always believe in him… "You never doubted me, even when I did everything in my power to try to get you to do so."

There was no change in John's expression; nor did he move. The gun remained aimed at Sherlock's forehead.

"And yet, I doubted you—after everything," Sherlock said. "I was wrong, John. And this time, it nearly cost me what mattered the most to me. But I will not make that same mistake again—"

He cringed as the recorded Moriarty spoke again.

"In case the two of you are still playing cat-and-mouse, I thought I'd let you know that an associate of mine is watching from across the street," Moriarty droned. "You've probably figured out who it is, haven't you, Sherlock? So if Johnny-boy doesn't get you, he will. Still, I'd rather my original plan work out—I put so much trouble into it, and, you have to admit… it's much more delicious."

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the mirror, reflecting the window behind him. A red point of light was visible from the window across the street, and Sherlock knew it was aimed at the back of his head, courtesy of Sebastian Moran. But as he looked back at the doctor, Sherlock saw his friend's eyes widen in customary concern, despite his current state.

That was more than enough to prove Sherlock's words. Forgetting about Moriarty, Moran, and Aranea for the moment, he focused his attentions back on John.

"And once again, you prove me right," the detective said, a hint of pride in his voice. "You believed in me, John; now, I will believe in you."

He lowered his arms, which had still been raised in a defensive position, leaving himself completely vulnerable.

"Moran is probably going to finish me," he said. "But I've taken precautions for the case to be brought against him and Moriarty's ring, regardless of what happens to me. My only concern now, John, is that you do not blame yourself for whatever transpires."

His gaze flickered to the mirror, and John looked out the window again, too.

"I don't know how long Moran will wait for you to attack," Sherlock confessed. "But it'll either end with him getting fed up and finishing me, or him finishing me the moment you lower your aim. I know now that the option of you killing me will not happen—"

"Speak for yourself," Aranea scoffed.

Sherlock ignored her and continued.

"—So remember that you outsmarted Moriarty this time. And you'll do it again, once I'm gone."

John suddenly took three steps forward, the metal of the gun now making contact with Sherlock's forehead. The detective did not flinch.

"What was that you were saying, Mr. Holmes?" Aranea asked.

Sherlock remained silent, still looking directly into John's eyes. The doctor returned the gaze, and neither of them moved. The clock ticked, each tick sounding as though it was magnified by the tangible tension.

At last, John's lips parted, and Sherlock read them to see him mouth two familiar words.

"_Vatican cameos_."

There was no time for Sherlock to allow himself to feel the rush of joy upon the knowledge that John—the true John Watson—was the one standing in front of him. John had a plan, and Sherlock knew exactly what it was.

The detective arched his body backwards to remove himself from John's line of fire and allowed gravity to take him to the floor.

But his heart skipped a beat as his ears registered one gunshot from within the room being followed almost a split-second later by another gunshot emanating from across the street.

A pained roar from outside was drowned out by the sound of something massive hitting the floor, and Sherlock's eyes widened in horror to see John fall into his line of vision.

"_John_!"

He kept as low to the ground as he could. He was momentarily distracted by Aranea dropping the tablet PC and fleeing; he grabbed the gun from John's hand and fired it at her—missing.

He then threw the weapon aside, reaching for his friend. The doctor remained unresponsive, but awake.

"John… John, where are you hit?"

The glassy look placed there by Moriarty's treatment was still in John's eyes, and Sherlock quickly brought him around by jingling the keys in his pocket. The moment the look in his eyes vanished, John cringed, letting out a yelp of pain.

"John!"

"Arm…" he gasped. "Right arm… Grazed…" He looked at the detective's face, giving a wan smile to see the relief blossoming across it once again. "Just a scratch…"

"I'll be the judge of that," Sherlock said, removing John's jacket.

"_One_ of us… has the medical degree. And it's not you."

The quip settled the matter before Sherlock's inspection of the wound did—John was going to be fine, and it was, indeed, a superficial wound. That didn't stop Sherlock from using a handkerchief to arrest the bleeding in one hand while texting a plea for help to Mycroft.

"Mycroft is sending help," he announced, after a moment. "You'll be fine."

"I know…" John said. He winced again, prompting Sherlock to grip his other shoulder. "Just my luck… to get shot in the other arm this time…"

"Grazed," Sherlock corrected him. He sent a brief thought of thanks for whatever providence had made that happen.

John gave another wan smile—one that faded as all of the details began to return to his recovering mind.

"Aranea—"

"She's left—most likely with a wounded Moran," Sherlock said, bitterly. "It was between going after them or looking after you." He looked to John, silently adding, _And I chose you_.

There was the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside; it was Mycroft's men, Sherlock knew.

This wouldn't be over for a long time—not as long as Aranea, Moran, and the rest of the network were free. But, for now, it was. John would be okay.

And that was the most important thing.

**Epilogue**

Sherlock was still keeping a low profile, and, now, John was, as well. Mycroft's contacts provided them with a variety of places to hide, and though both Sherlock and John found it vexing to have to hide—a lot of the time in separate places—they both agreed that it was better than the alternative of anything happening to either of them. And at least, this time, they were able to keep in touch through texts and infrequent meetings.

John was still highly upset by Aranea's betrayal—as well as the fact that he had not been able to recognize her ulterior motives. Worst of all, though, was the knowledge of what he had almost done to his best friend. Sherlock continued to insist that John was blameless, having been both drugged and hypnotized.

More than that, though, was John's nagging fear that he was still under the power of suggestion; Sherlock was convinced that Aranea's need to repeatedly give him doses of the drug proved otherwise. It was therefore why, on one occasion when they had found a chance to get together, Sherlock had arrived with a small bell in his hand—a bell that John regarded with absolute horror.

"What are you doing with that!?" the doctor asked, staring at it as though it was toxic. "Keep that away!"

"I'm using this to prove a point," the detective answered.

John clamped his hands over his ears.

"I really don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock—"

"On the contrary, I think it is," he replied. "We need to establish the fact that you are no longer under anyone's power. Then you can stop living the rest of your life in fear of keys and silverware."

"Sherlock—!"

John cringed as the bell rung, but then blinked as nothing happened. He looked to the detective to see a smug look on his face.

"I think I've proven my point," he said.

John exhaled, but then glared at Sherlock.

"You took a very foolish risk, you know. What if the suggestion hadn't worn off? What would you have done then?"

"Nothing," the detective answered, idly.

"…Sorry?"

"Well, you'd already proven that you were able to overcome the power of suggestion," Sherlock said. "I wasn't worried. Not this time."

And as the doctor glanced at the detective, he realized that, this time, it wasn't just him saying what John wanted to hear.

And for the first time in a long time, John Watson finally began to believe that things would, eventually, return to the way they had been before the fall.

And, together, they would see it through.

* * *

_Notes: I am so sorry for how ridiculously long it took me to get this final chapter up; an extra-special thanks to all of you who stuck through it, regardless._


End file.
